It entered into them, dreamy and languorous, weakening the fibres of resolution, suffusing the face of morality, or of judgment, with haze and purple mist.

Martin felt tender and melting, and from time to time warm glows passed over him.

His head was very near to hers, and when wandering phantoms of breeze stirred her hair so that it touched his face, the printed pages swam before his eyes.
"I don't believe you know a word of what you are reading," she said once when he had lost his place.
He looked at her with burning eyes, and was on the verge of becoming awkward, when a retort came to his lips.
"I don't believe you know either.

What was the last sonnet about ?" "I don't know," she laughed frankly.

"I've already forgotten.