In him her life found its consummation she had him fast, and would never let him go.
Her love was a curious mixture of ardent passion and melting, sentimental tenderness.

At one moment the Bacchante, drinking long draughts of love and life from his lips, at another, the innocent girl who sought and found a chaste felicity in the mere rapturous contemplation of the man she adored.

The longer she knew him, the deeper she penetrated into his character, the more did the Bacchante recede and yield her place to the Psyche.

The allegory of Wilhelm's pastel seemed wrong, her own drawing right.

She was no bloodthirsty Sphinx revelling in human victims, but a harmless little cat purring against the side of the young god.