She is the living image of her father.

He was delicate, although his health was not bad.

He died of a fall from his horse.

You'll take a cup of tea, won't you, Monsieur de Ligny ?" Felicie entered the room.

Her hair was outspread upon her shoulders; she was wrapped in a white woollen dressing-gown, held very loosely at the waist by a heavy embroidered girdle, and she shuffled along in red slippers; she looked a mere child.