For his own part, he felt guilty, because he could put so little heart into that kiss, compared with all previous embraces.

She was a stout, hearty little woman, who could never have been in the least beautiful, even when she was young.

Now on the middle line, between forty and fifty, she looked as if her face had been chopped out of the marble by a rude but determined artist, one who knew what he wanted and would tolerate no conventional work.

So that her face, at all events, was, if not unique, at least unlike any other face one had ever seen.

Most faces, we know, can be reduced to certain general types--even Iris's face might be classified--while of yours, my brother, there are, no doubt, multitudes.