And once he climbed the headland and appeared suddenly to those below, a white speck elevated in the blue, with a diminutive but statuesque effect.
Felicia Moorsom remained near the house.

Sometimes she could be seen with a despairing expression scribbling rapidly in her lock-up dairy.
But only for a moment.

At the sound of Renouard's footsteps she would turn towards him her beautiful face, adorable in that calm which was like a wilful, like a cruel ignoring of her tremendous power.

Whenever she sat on the verandah, on a chair more specially reserved for her use, Renouard would stroll up and sit on the steps near her, mostly silent, and often not trusting himself to turn his glance on her.

She, very still with her eyes half-closed, looked down on his head--so that to a beholder (such as Professor Moorsom, for instance) she would appear to be turning over in her mind profound thoughts about that man sitting at her feet, his shoulders bowed a little, his hands listless--as if vanquished.
And, indeed, the moral poison of falsehood has such a decomposing power that Renouard felt his old personality turn to dead dust.