He perceived at present what a nuisance the glass had been--how it perverted and interfered, how it caught the reflection of other objects and kept you walking from side to side.

He had no need to ask himself whether Charlotte and Gertrude, and Lizzie Acton, were in the right light; they were always in the right light.

He liked everything about them: he was, for instance, not at all above liking the fact that they had very slender feet and high insteps.

He liked their pretty noses; he liked their surprised eyes and their hesitating, not at all positive way of speaking; he liked so much knowing that he was perfectly at liberty to be alone for hours, anywhere, with either of them; that preference for one to the other, as a companion of solitude, remained a minor affair.

Charlotte Wentworth's sweetly severe features were as agreeable as Lizzie Acton's wonderfully expressive blue eyes; and Gertrude's air of being always ready to walk about and listen was as charming as anything else, especially as she walked very gracefully.
After a while Felix began to distinguish; but even then he would often wish, suddenly, that they were not all so sad.