"I suppose ages and ages of dreadful necessity have made it second nature to every woman, even the best of us," reflected she.

If he weren't a handsome, superior man she might be finding it more difficult; also, no doubt the surroundings, so romantic, so fitting as background for his ruggedness, were helping her to dexterity and even enthusiasm.
It was amusing, how she deceived herself--for the harmless self-deceptions of us chronic mummers are always amusing.

The fact was, this melting and inviting mood had far more of nature and sincerity in it than there had been in her icy aloofness.

Icy aloofness, except in the heroines of aristocratic novels, is a state of mind compatible only with extreme stupidity or with some one of those organic diseases that sour the disposition.

Never had she been in such health as in that camp, never so buoyant, never had merely being alive been so deliciously intoxicating; the scratch he had made on her throat had healed in twenty-four hours, had all but disappeared in seventy-two.