They look at us, and that is enough." To poor Mistress Anne, who had seen no company and listened to no wits, the entertainment bestowed upon her was as wonderful as a night at the playhouse would have been.

To watch the vivid changing face; to hearken to jesting stories of men and women who seemed like the heroes and heroines of her romances; to hear love itself--the love she trembled and palpitated at the mere thought of--spoken of openly as an experience which fell to all; to hear it mocked at with dainty or biting quips; to learn that women of all ages played with, enjoyed, or lost themselves for it--it was with her as if a nun had been withdrawn from her cloister and plunged into the vortex of the world.
"Sister," she said, looking at the Beauty with humble, adoring eyes, "you make me feel that my romances are true.

You tell such things.

It is like seeing pictures of things to hear you talk.

No wonder that all listen to you, for indeed 'tis wonderful the way you have with words.