Harsh gargoyle face that warred against me over our mess of hash of lights in rue Saint-André-des-Arts.
— from Ulysses by James Joyce

He is not of the modern world; nor is he of the eighteenth century, although so much of his outer life is characteristic of it.
— from The Renaissance: Studies in Art and Poetry by Walter Pater

Finally, the daily life of the Hawaiian, if he lives near the sea-coast and is master of his own life, is divided between fishing, taro planting, poi making, and mat weaving.
— from Northern California, Oregon, and the Sandwich Islands by Charles Nordhoff

For this reason the manner of hanging on lath is the better way and in New England is fast displacing the old method of hanging with twine.
— from Tobacco; Its History, Varieties, Culture, Manufacture and Commerce by E. R. Billings

Of the Infant's Grave next noticed, I will only say, it is an exact picture of what fell under my own observation; and all persons who are intimately acquainted with cottage life must often have observed like instances of the working of the domestic affections.
— from The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth — Volume 5 (of 8) by William Wordsworth

[740] [421] For by this time the protracted tyranny of the English clergy had totally destroyed those feelings of respect which, even in the midst of hostility, often linger in the mind; and by the influence of which, if they had still existed, the contest might perhaps have been averted.
— from History of Civilization in England, Vol. 1 of 3 by Henry Thomas Buckle

He therefore aimed at preaching Christ crucified, and kept much of his own light in the background, bringing it out only in occasional flashes, which were calculated to illuminate, but not dazzle, the minds of his people.
— from Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication by R. M. (Robert Michael) Ballantyne

He is not of the modern world; nor is he wholly of the eighteenth century, although so much of his outer life is characteristic of it.
— from The Renaissance: studies in art and poetry by Walter Pater

But they remained mute within him; they were rather painful than consoling to him; when he recalled passages of Shelley, of Musset, of Heine, of Leopardi, it seemed to him that the tongue in which they spoke was so familiar to him that it should have been his own, and yet he had forgotten it or could not learn it, in some way could never make it his.
— from Othmar by Ouida