She has her faults; may not relish the writ announcing her final deposition, but be you true to me, and as true as she has unfailingly been to me, she will be to you.

That I can promise.

My poor Lucie! She is winter, if you will.

It is not the winter of the steppes; you may compare her to winter in a noble country; a fine landscape of winter.

The outlines of her face....