There was a faint perfume about it that sickened me--a subtle odor like that of a civet cat when it moves stealthily after its prey through a tangle of tropical herbage.

I always detested scented note-paper--I am not the only man who does so.
One is led to fancy that the fingers of the woman who writes upon it must have some poisonous or offensive taint about them, which she endeavors to cover by the aid of a chemical concoction.

I would not permit myself to think of this so "faithful Nina," as she styled herself.

I resumed my reading, and continued it even at dinner, during which meal Vincenzo waited upon me with his usual silent gravity and decorum, though I could feel that he watched me with a certain solicitude.

I suppose I looked weary--I certainly felt so, and retired to rest unusually early.