How stupid they'll all look! Fagette, my dear, will make herself ill over it." She sat down on a little rickety chair.

Her forehead, but a moment before as white as marble, was rosy; she had once more assumed her cheeky flapper's expression.
He drew near to her, gazed into the fascinating grey of her eyes, and, as on the evening before, when he sat in front of his coke-fire, he reflected that she was untruthful and cowardly, and ill-natured toward her friends; but now the thought was tempered with indulgence.

He reflected that she had love-affairs with actors of the lowest type, or that she at least made shift with them; but the thought was tempered with a gentle pity.

He recalled all the evil that he knew of her, but without bitterness.

He felt that he loved her, less because she was pretty than because she was pretty in her own fashion; in a word, that he loved her because she was a gem endowed with life, and an incomparable thing of art and voluptuousness.