The light of the sunrise fell on
her ear and cheek. Her pretty white neck and the little curls
that nestled there, and her white shoulder were in the sun, and all
the grace of her body was in the cool blue shadow. She was dressed
--how can I describe it? It was easy and flowing. And altogether
there she stood, so that it came to me how beautiful and desirable
she was, as though I had never seen her before. And when at last
I sighed and raised myself upon my arm she turned her face to me--"
He stopped.
"I have lived three-and-fifty years in this world. I have had
mother, sisters, friends, wife and daughters--all their faces, the
play of their faces, I know. But the face of this girl--it is much
more real to me. I can bring it back into memory so that I see it
again--I could draw it or paint it. And after all--"
He stopped--but I said nothing.
"The face of a dream--the face of a dream. She was beautiful.
Not that beauty which is terrible, cold, and worshipful, like the
beauty of a saint; nor that beauty that stirs fierce passions; but
a sort of radiation, sweet lips that softened into smiles, and
grave gray eyes. And she moved gracefully, she seemed to have part
with all pleasant and gracious things--"
He stopped, and his face was downcast and hidden. Then he
looked up at me and went on, making no further attempt to disguise
his absolute belief in the reality of his story.
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