” She lifted her eyebrows. I’m a little tired. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as she pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the most favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her sylphlike figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow of her countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting sun falling upon her through the panes of the little dormer-window, that seemed to the youth inexpressibly beautiful.
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