Roxalana was nothing to her.

How, in the obscure hamlet of Brook-Green, she had learned all the arts of pleasing it is impossible to say.

In her arch smile, the pretty toss of her head, the half shyness, half freedom, of her winning ways, it was as if Nature had made her to delight one heart, and torment all others.
Without being learned, the mind of Evelyn was cultivated and well informed.

Her heart, perhaps, helped to instruct her understanding; for by a kind of intuition she could appreciate all that was beautiful and elevated.

Her unvitiated and guileless taste had a logic of its own: no schoolman had ever a quicker penetration into truth, no critic ever more readily detected the meretricious and the false.