He had not thought of ascribing the acuteness of his pain to the miserable image he presented in this particular lady's eye.

No; it really was true, curiously true: another lady's eye might have transformed him to a pumpkin shape, exaggerated all his foibles fifty-fold, and he, though not liking it, of course not, would yet have preserved a certain manly equanimity.

How was it Lady Camper had such power over him ?--a lady concealing seventy years with a rouge-box or paint-pot! It was witchcraft in its worst character.

He had for six months at her bidding been actually living the life of a beast, degraded in his own esteem; scorched by every laugh he heard; running, pursued, overtaken, and as it were scored or branded, and then let go for the process to be repeated..