If her conversation was light and trivial, it was amusing, and she was never at a loss for something to say, or for suitable words to express it in.

There was nothing pert or flippant in her manner now, as when she walked with Mr.Hatfield, there was only a gentle, playful kind of vivacity, which I thought must be peculiarly pleasing to a man of Mr.Weston's disposition and temperament.
When he was gone she began to laugh, and muttered to herself, 'I thought I could do it!' 'Do what ?' I asked.
'Fix that man.' 'What in the world do you mean ?' 'I mean that he will go home and dream of me.

I have shot him through the heart!' 'How do you know ?' 'By many infallible proofs: more especially the look he gave me when he went away.

It was not an impudent look--I exonerate him from that--it was a look of reverential, tender adoration.

Ha, ha! he's not quite such a stupid blockhead as I thought him!' I made no answer, for my heart was in my throat, or something like it, and I could not trust myself to speak.