He walked carelessly on, neither looking to the right nor the left, with that air of thought and abstraction which I have remarked as common to all men in the habit of indulging any engrossing and exciting passion.
We were just on the other side of the Seine, when I perceived the woman of the Jardin des Plantes approach.

Tyrrell (for that, I afterwards discovered, was really his name) started as she came near, and asked her, in a tone of some asperity, where she had been?
As I was but a few paces behind, I had a clear, full view of the woman's countenance.
She was about twenty-eight or thirty years of age.

Her features were decidedly handsome, though somewhat too sharp and aquiline for my individual taste.

Her eyes were light and rather sunken; and her complexion bespoke somewhat of the paleness and languor of ill-health.
On the whole, the expression of her face, though decided, was not unpleasing, and when she returned Tyrrell's rather rude salutation, it was with a smile, which made her, for the moment, absolutely beautiful.
"Where have I been to ?" she said, in answer to his interrogatory.

"Why, I went to look at the New Church, which they told me was so superbe." "Methinks," replied the man, "that ours are not precisely the circumstances in which such spectacles are amusing." "Nay, Tyrrell," said the woman, as taking his arm they walked on together a few paces before me, "nay, we are quite rich now to what we have been; and, if you do play again, our two hundred pounds may swell into a fortune.