She was a perfect hostess--most attentive--most graceful.

I shall never forget her kindness to me any more than I shall forget the comeliness of her face or the gleam of her golden hair.
She thought I was not well.

She did not know that it was fear which had blanched my face and made me tremble; she could not tell that it was horror which curdled my blood.

Without any fuss--she was so anxiously considerate for me--without seeming to make any ceremony, she was so gracefully kind; she would not let me sit in the draughts; with her own hands she selected some purple grapes for me.

This could never be the woman who had drowned a little child.
When dinner was over and we were in the drawing-room again, she drew a chair near the fire for me.
"You will laugh at the notion of a fire in May," she said; "but I find the early summer evenings chilly, and I cannot bear the cold." I wondered if she thought of the chill of the water in which she had plunged the little child.