Then he would turn away to the portrait of his dead Lise, who with hair curled a la grecque looked tenderly and gaily at him out of the gilt frame.

She did not now say those former terrible words to him, but looked simply, merrily, and inquisitively at him.

And Prince Andrew, crossing his arms behind him, long paced the room, now frowning, now smiling, as he reflected on those irrational, inexpressible thoughts, secret as a crime, which altered his whole life and were connected with Pierre, with fame, with the girl at the window, the oak, and woman's beauty and love.

And if anyone came into his room at such moments he was particularly cold, stern, and above all unpleasantly logical.