She's magnificent.

The colour of her skin against the lions was splendid to-day: a regular rich gold with a sweet stain of red like a leaf of maize in September.

There's never been such a Una.

I've got my chance; and if I don't pull it off, 'Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket, And say a poor buffer lies low!'" "Get the jacket ready," put in a young Frenchman, sneering.
The Englishman's jaw hardened, but he replied coolly "What do you know about it ?" "I know enough.

The Comte Ploare visits her." "How the devil does that concern my painting her ?" There was iron in Bagshot's voice.
"Who says you are painting her ?" The insult was conspicuous.