His cheeks were pink, his hands not large, but sinewy and strong.

Her pale, uncertain, lymphatic body extracted a form of dynamic energy from him even at this range.
"I don't think you ought to come to see me so often.

People won't think well of it." She ventured to take a distant, matronly air--the air she had originally held toward him.
"People," he said, "don't worry about people.

People think what you want them to think.

I wish you wouldn't take that distant air toward me." "Why ?" "Because I like you." "But you mustn't like me.