It is impossible to describe how deliciously soft, bright, fresh, pure, and delicate, this young lady is, merely as an object to look at, contrasted with the dingy disorder of the studio-sphere through which she now moves.

The keenest observers, beholding her as she at present appears, would detect nothing in her face or figure, her manner or her costume, in the slightest degree suggestive of impenetrable mystery, or incurable misfortune.

And yet, she happens to be the only person in Mr.Blyth's household at whom prying glances are directed, whenever she walks out; whose very existence is referred to by the painter's neighbors with an invariable accompaniment of shrugs, sighs, and lamenting looks; and whose "case" is always compassionately designated as "a sad one," whenever it is brought forward, in the course of conversation, at dinner-tables and tea-tables in the new suburb.
Socially, we may be all easily divided into two classes in this world--at least in the civilized part of it.

If we are not the people whom others talk about, then we are sure to be the people who talk about others.

The young lady who had just entered Mr.Blyth's painting-room, belonged to the former order of human beings.
She seemed fated to be used as a constant subject of conversation by her fellow-creatures.