The handsome things she had admired from her youth up she suddenly suspected of age and absurdity.

In short, she felt that fear which takes possession of nearly all authors when they read over a work they have hitherto thought proof against every exacting or blase critic: new situations seem timeworn; the best-turned and most highly polished phrases limp and squint; metaphors and images grin or contradict each other; whatsoever is false strikes the eye.

In like manner this poor woman trembled lest she should see on the lips of Monsieur de Troisville a smile of contempt for this episcopal salon; she dreaded the cold look he might cast over that ancient dining-room; in short, she feared the frame might injure and age the portrait.

Suppose these antiquities should cast a reflected light of old age upon herself?
This question made her flesh creep.

She would gladly, at that moment, spend half her savings on refitting her house if some fairy wand could do it in a moment.