"So, stir your stumps, Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch. ’ ‘Oh, you are, are you?’ said the nun, evidently not mollified, but she was forestalled. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume.
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