Her spelling was abominable.
Her sentiments infantile.

And for some reason when she wrote she declared her belief in God.

Then there were crosses--tear stains; and the hand itself rambling and redeemed only by the fact--which always did redeem Florinda--by the fact that she cared.

Yes, whether it was for chocolate creams, hot baths, the shape of her face in the looking-glass, Florinda could no more pretend a feeling than swallow whisky.
Incontinent was her rejection.

Great men are truthful, and these little prostitutes, staring in the fire, taking out a powder-puff, decorating lips at an inch of looking-glass, have (so Jacob thought) an inviolable fidelity.
Then he saw her turning up Greek Street upon another man's arm.
The light from the arc lamp drenched him from head to toe.