She gave me a spoonful of something with no taste to it, without so much as asking me whether I wanted it.
Indeed, this gentle person treated me as a child, as, moreover, I think women always treat such men as are wholly in their power.
"You must keep quiet," she said.

"See, I will read to you!" and taking a book from her pocket read aloud the Psalms in a cunning sing-song voice that sent me to sleep.
When I awoke again the nun was still in the room, and, with her, Sander, talking the most atrocious French.

A queer contrast.

One of the world worldly, a moth that battened on the seamy side; the other far above the wickedness of men.
"Hush!" I heard her say.

"He is awake, and must not hear of your affairs." And she turned away from poor Sander, with his shrewd air, as from the world and the iniquity thereof.
He shrugged his shoulders and looked at her placid back, which, indeed, she gave him unceremoniously enough, with a hopeless contempt.
Womanhood had earned, it appeared, his profoundest scorn as unbusinesslike and incompetent.