The girl's own faith was wonderful.

It couldn't however be contagious: too great was the limit of her sense of what painters call values.

Her colours were laid on like blankets on a cold night.

How indeed could a person speak the truth who was always posturing and bragging?
She was after all vulgar enough, and by the time I had mastered her profile and could almost with my eyes shut do it in a single line I was decidedly tired of its "purity," which affected me at last as inane.

One moved with her, moreover, among phenomena mismated and unrelated; nothing in her talk ever matched anything out of it.