She is flesh and blood; not sawdust, powder, and vermilion.

She has a heart and a will; not a spirit corrupted by vanity and licence." La Fosse burst into a laugh.
"Hark! O, hark!" he cried, "to the apostle of the chaste!" "Saint Gris!" exclaimed another.

"This good Chatellerault has lost both heart and head to her." Chatellerault glanced at the speaker with an eye in which anger smouldered.
"You have said it," I agreed.

"He has fallen her victim, and so his vanity translates her into a compound of perfections.

Does such a woman as you have described exist, Comte?
Bah! In a lover's mind, perhaps, or in the pages of some crack-brained poet's fancies; but nowhere else in this dull world of ours." He made a gesture of impatience.
"You have been clumsy, Chatellerault," I insisted.
"You have lacked address.