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"But beautiful's not a thing you can go in for, like an exam: You're born so, or you're born not so; and you know you're not I mean, you know you're Well, it isn't your fault. Are you going to be sent away for just being not pretty?" "I told you," said the girl, with a little impatience. "Being pretty is of no consequence. I am pretty, of course," she added regretfully.
The horse turned its head and whinnied softly at the attention; and it was evident it loved the very sound of Mr. Flower's voice. "Have you ever been to Derbyshire?" asked Mr. Flower, presently, and Henry immediately scented an idealism in the question. "No," he answered; "but I believe it's a beautiful county." "Beautiful's no name for it," said Mr. Flower; "it's just a garden."
ASTRAEA: I am. I am the object of the chase. ARDEN: The huntsman draws the wood, then, and not you. ASTRAEA: At any instant I am forced to run, Or turn in my defence: how can I be Other than barbarous? You are the cause. ARDEN: No: heaven that made you beautiful's the cause. ASTRAEA: Say, earth, that gave you instincts. Bring me down To instincts!
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