... Yet even they did not escape the trials which drove their brethren out of France at the great revolution:  rather their defenceless state exposed them the more to the fury of the persecution; four of the nuns of Cambray alone died in prison at Compiègne, Dames Anselma Ann, Theresa Walmesley, and Margaret Burgess, besides sister Anne Pennington, a lay sister of the same monastery... (The Downside Review, v.3, Jan., 1884)

    "Look on me," proceeded the renegade; "look on me, Gomez Arias; behold the man by you condemned to misery and shame—I am Bermudo the outcast, the maddened lover of the unfortunate Anselma.  Call back, Don Lope, the powers of thy fleeting soul, and fix its fading recollection on thy crimes and my misfortunes:  remember Anselma—remember her frightful fate—your wrongs to me—the despair to which I was driven.  But for thee, proud man, I might have been a hero, and for thee I am a traitor and a renegade..." (Gomez Arias; or, The Moors of the Alpujarras, Cosío, 1828).

    ANSELMA and Beppo, children of the desert, passed hand-in-hand out into the world:  Anselma—gay, laughing, happy—looking far out into a glorious future where sorrow could not enter; Beppo—sad and pensive—yearning for gold with which to rise to mighty power and rule mankind.  The children for some time were silent; their joy was too great for speech, for there before them was the city that they had been searching for so many days.  They did not feel now the hunger which had been consuming them, nor the fatigue which had been so hard to bear—no, not now that their happiness lay glimmering before them... (Belford's Magazine, v.4, Dec. 1889—May 1890).