Those who knew Bianca Dallison better than Mr.Purcey were but too well aware of this fugitive, proud spirit permeating one whose beauty would otherwise have passed unquestioned.
She was a little taller than Cecilia, her figure rather fuller and more graceful, her hair darker, her eyes, too, darker and more deeply set, her cheek-bones higher, her colouring richer.

That spirit of the age, Disharmony, must have presided when a child so vivid and dark-coloured was christened Bianca.
Mr.Purcey, however, was not a man who allowed the finest shades of feeling to interfere with his enjoyments.

She was a "strikin'-lookin' woman," and there was, thanks to Harpignies, a link between them.
"Your father and I, Mrs.Dallison, can't quite understand each other," he began.

"Our views of life don't seem to hit it off exactly." "Really," murmured Bianca; "I should have thought that you'd have got on so well." "He's a little bit too--er--scriptural for me, perhaps," said Mr.
Purcey, with some delicacy.
"Did we never tell you," Bianca answered softly, "that my father was a rather well--known man of science before his illness ?" "Ah!" replied Mr.Purcey, a little puzzled; "that, of course.

D'you know, of all your pictures, Mrs.Dallison, I think that one you call 'The Shadow' is the most rippin'.