She knew the latest fashions, the addresses of the best tailors, the days of the Bois and the Opera.

In Eugene Sue she studied descriptions of furniture; she read Balzac and George Sand, seeking in them imaginary satisfaction for her own desires.
Even at table she had her book by her, and turned over the pages while Charles ate and talked to her.

The memory of the Viscount always returned as she read.

Between him and the imaginary personages she made comparisons.

But the circle of which he was the centre gradually widened round him, and the aureole that he bore, fading from his form, broadened out beyond, lighting up her other dreams.
Paris, more vague than the ocean, glimmered before Emma's eyes in an atmosphere of vermilion.