Her manner too was extraordinarily nervous; her hand shook as she touched a plate; her movements were full of starts, and checks, as though, often, she intended a thing and then forgot it.
They avoided talking about money, and he did not mention the name of Madame de Pastourelles; though of course his letters had reported the external history of the portrait.

But Phoebe presently inquired after it.
'Have you nearly done painting that lady, John ?--I don't know how to say her name.' As she spoke, she lifted a bit of bread-and-butter to her mouth and put it down untasted.

In the same way she had tried to drink some tea, and had not apparently succeeded.

Fenwick rose and went over to her.
'Look here, Phoebe,' he said, putting his hand on her beautiful hair and turning her face to him--'what's the matter ?' Her eyelids closed, and a quiver went through the face.
'I don't know.

I--I had a fright a few days ago--at night--and I suppose I haven't got over it.' 'A fright ?' 'Yes.