She was a tall, yellow, bony woman with an extremely long face, suggestive of a horse.

Stepan Trofimovitch hesitated more and more, he was tortured by doubts, he positively shed tears of indecision once or twice (he wept not infrequently).

In the evenings, that is to say in the arbour, his countenance involuntarily began to express something capricious and ironical, something coquettish and at the same time condescending.

This is apt to happen as it were by accident, and the more gentlemanly the man the more noticeable it is.

Goodness only knows what one is to think about it, but it's most likely that nothing had begun working in her heart that could have fully justified Stepan Trofimovitch's suspicions.
Moreover, she would not have changed her name, Stavrogin, for his name, famous as it was.