He made a good stout effort to resist the pipe-smoke.

Emilia's voice, her growing beauty, her simplicity, her peculiar charms of feature, were all conjured up to combat the dismal images suggested by that fatal, dragging-down smell.
It was vain.

Horrible pipe-smoke pervaded the memory of her.

It seemed to his offended dainty fancy that he could never dissociate her from smoking-booths and abominably bad tobacco; and, let us add (for this was part of the secret), that it never could dwell on her without the companionship of a hideous disfigured countenance, claiming to be Wilfrid Pole.

He shuddered to think that he had virtually almost engaged himself to this girl.