Then, what sort of woman is she?
She was once under a fascination--ludicrously, painfully, intensely like a sort of tipsy poor puss, the trapped hare tossed to her serpent; and thoroughly reassured for a few caresses, quite at home, caged and at home; and all abloom with pretty ways, modest pranks, innocent fondlings.

Gobbled, my dear! It is the doom of the innocents, a natural fate.

Smother the creature with kindness again, show we are a point in the scale above that old coiler snake--which broke no bones, bit not so very deep;--she will be, she ought to be, the woman she was.

That is, if she was then sincere, a dose of kindness should operate happily to restore the honeymoony fancies, hopes, trusts, dreams, all back, as before the honeymoon showed the silver crook and shadowy hag's back of a decaying crescent.

And true enough, the poor girl's young crescent of a honeymoon went down sickly-yellow rather early.