She is absolutely sincere in her intentions--the earth holds no sincerer woman--but she is a self-deceiver.

Her about-to-be-sequestered and meditative self was at that moment sitting on the arm of a chair and smoking a cigarette, with undisguised relish of the good things of this life.

The blue smoke wreathing itself amid her fair hair resembled, so I told her in the relaxed intellectual frame of mind of the contented man, incense mounting through the nimbus of a saint.

She affected solicitude lest the life-blood of my intelligence should be pouring out through my cut finger.

No, I am convinced that the _recueillement_ (that beautiful French word for which we have no English equivalent, meaning the gathering of the soul together within itself) of the rue Boissy d'Anglais is the very happiest delusion wherewith Judith has hitherto deluded herself.