The air was palpitating with sleepy comfort round him, and he felt a new vitality pass into him: his imagination was feeding his enfeebled body; his active brain was giving him a fresh counterfeit of health.

The hectic flush on his pale face deepened.

He came to the wooden steps of the piazza, or stoop, and then paused a moment, as if for breath; but, suddenly conscious of what he was doing, he ran briskly up the steps, knocked with his cane upon the door jamb, and, without waiting, stepped inside.
Between him and the outer door, against the ardent blue background, stood Sophie Farcinelle--the English faced Sophie--a little heavy, a little slow, but with the large, long profile which is the type of English beauty--docile, healthy, cow-like.

Her face, within her sunbonnet, caught the reflected light, and the pink calico of her dress threw a glow over her cheeks and forehead, and gave a good gleam to her eyes.

She had in her hands a dish of strawberries.