Gustave Moreau alone transposed her to paint—Moreau, too, was a cenobite of art.
He retained his old habits as a cenobite, and even as a hermit.
Her neatness and the exquisite care she took of her person had in them little of the cenobite.
And though the cenobite realises his personality, it is often an impoverished personality that he so realises.
Like a cenobite's cell, too, my pavilion was not meant for a storehouse of worldly treasures.
He did not dine every day, and when he did it was a cenobite's meal, little suited to the taste of a true Englishman.
But neither the life of a cenobite, nor the labours of a missionary could satisfy the aspirations of his soul after perfection.