There was a cold immobility and dignity in her face.
I should not have recognised it; I should not have known her smiles, her glances, though I thought her exquisite in this new aspect too.
She wore a light barége dress with pale blue flowers on it; her hair fell in long curls down her cheek in the English fashion; this style went well with the cold expression of her face.
My father sat beside her during dinner, and entertained his neighbour with the finished and serene courtesy peculiar to him.
He glanced at her from time to time, and she glanced at him, but so strangely, almost with hostility.
Their conversation was carried on in French; I was surprised, I remember, at the purity of Zinaida's accent.
The princess, while we were at table, as before made no ceremony; she ate a great deal, and praised the dishes.
My mother was obviously bored by her, and answered her with a sort of weary indifference; my father faintly frowned now and then.
My mother did not like Zinaida either.
'A conceited minx,' she said next day.