But, knowing our Adela's heart, is it not even sweeter to bear with her?
You will go far before you find virtue in which there is no dear sustaining comfort of self.

For my part, Adela is more to me for the imperfection, infinitely more to me for the confession of it in her own mind.

How can a woman be lovelier than when most womanly, or more precious than when she reflects her own weakness in clarity of soul?
As she made her way through the wood her trouble of conscience was lost in deeper suffering.

The scent of undergrowths, which always brought back to her the glad days of maidenhood, filled her with the hopelessness of the future.

There was no return on the path of life; every step made those memories of happiness more distant and thickened the gloom about her.