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521 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1946

At the back of his mind, Ross was aware of the sound of wind rushing about in the distance. Once, when he glanced out of the bedroom window, his eyes confirmed that the swell had, in fact, quite broken up and the sea was stippled with white-lipped waves, which crossed and recrossed each other in confusion, running heedlessly, colliding, and breaking up into wisps of futile spray. The wind was as yet only gusty on the land, but here and there eddies rushed over the water, little winds, vicious and lost.







He was not a man who spoke his innermost feelings easily, but now he saw himself powerless to help her, and only words of his and not actions would give her aid. 'Nothing else matters but you,' he said. 'Remember that. All my relatives and friends - and Elizabeth, and this house and the mine... I'd throw them in the dust and you know it - you know it. If you don't know it, then all these months I've failed and no words I can give you now will make it otherwise. I love you, Demelza and we've had such happiness. And we're going to have it again. Take hold of that, my sweet. Hold it and keep it, for no one else can.'
“Strange sometimes how easy bitter words came, how hard the kind ones.”
“They are all sentimentalists at heart, the Poldarks, Verity thought, and she realized suddenly for the first time that it was a dangerous trait, far more dangerous than any cynicism.”
“Whatever she suffered, whatever loss came to her, she would throw it off, for it was not in her nature to go under. Although she was the woman and he a fierce and sometimes arrogant man, hers was the stronger nature because the more pliant.”
“He was not a man who spoke his innermost feelings easily, but now he saw himself powerless to help her, and only words of his and not actions would give her aid.”
“An hour before dawn they went down to the cove, following the bubble of the stream and the descending combe, with a glowworm here and there green-lit like a jewel in the dark.”
“The ribbon of milky mist lay in the gully. It stretched down to the sea, and there were patches across the sand hills like steam from a kettle.”
“Walking here with the sun-warmed air on his face he had come up against the fact that it was good just to be alive.”
“Failure was the end of life; all effort was dust, necessary and complete. All roads led to the bleak parapet of death.”








