She is as good a little creature as can be.  She is never out of temper; I don’t think she is very wise; but she is uncommonly pretty, and her beauty grows on you....  I look at her like a little wild-flower in a field,—­like a little child at play, sir.  Pretty little tender nursling.  If I see her passing in the street I feel as if I would like some fellow to be rude to her that I might have the pleasure of knocking him down.  She is like a little songbird, sir,—­a tremulous, fluttering little linnet that you would take into your hand, and smooth its little plumes, and let it perch on your finger and sing.—­The Newcomes.

     That fine blush which is her pretty symbol of youth, modesty, and
     beauty....  I never saw such a beautiful violet as that of her eyes. 
     Her complexion is of the pink of the blush-rose.—­The Newcomes.

     He thought and wondered at the way in which women play with men,
     and coax them and win them and drop them.—­Pendennis.

It was this lady’s disposition to think kindnesses, and devise silent bounties and to scheme benevolence, for those about her.  We take such goodness, for the most part, as if it were our due; the Marys who bring ointment for our feet get but little thanks.  Some of us never feel this devotion at all, or are moved by it to gratitude or acknowledgment; others only recall it years after, when the days are past in which those sweet kindnesses were spent on us, and we offer back our return for the debt by a poor tardy payment of tears.  The forgotten tones of love recur to us, and kind glances shine out of the past—­O so bright and clear!—­O so longed after! because they are out of reach; as holiday music from with-inside a prison wall—­or sunshine seen through the bars; more prized because unattainable, more bright because of the contrast of present darkness and solitude, whence there is no escape.—­Henry Esmond.

In houses where, in place of that sacred, inmost flame of love, there is discord at the centre, the whole household becomes hypocritical, and each lies to his neighbor....  Alas that youthful love and truth should end in bitterness and bankruptcy....  ’Tis a hard task for women in life, that mask which the world bids them wear.  But there is no greater crime than for a woman who is ill used and unhappy to show that she is so.  The world is quite relentless about bidding her to keep a cheerful face.—­Henry Esmond.

O, what a mercy it is that these women do not exercise their powers oftener.  We can’t resist them if they do.  Let them show ever so little inclination and men go down on their knees at once; old or ugly it is all the same, and this I set down as a positive truth.  A woman with fair opportunities, and without