His experience with the worst element of Canadian French life and his peculiar cast of mind and character colored his impression of her.

He measured her by the women with whom the coureurs de bois and half-breed trappers consorted in Detroit and at the posts eastward to Quebec.
Alice, unable to sleep, had sought forgetfulness of her bitter captivity in the old poet's charming lyrics.

She sat on the floor, some blankets and furs drawn around her, the book on her lap, the stupidly dull lamp hanging beside her on a part of the swivel.

Her hair lay loose over her neck and shoulders and shimmered around her face with a cloud-like effect, giving to the features in their repose a setting that intensified their sweetness and sadness.

In a very low but distinct voice was reading, with a slightly quavering emotion: "Mignonne, allons voir si la rose, Que ce matin avoit desclose Sa robe de pourpe au soleil." When Hamilton, after stealthily mounting the rough stairway which led to her door, peeped in through a space between the slabs and felt a stroke of disappointment, seeing at a glance that Farnsworth was not there.