The beauty, the expression of her eyes, the tear that had trembled there, the compassion in her voice, and a kind of wild elegance that consecrated the freedom of her movements, all combined to enslave my imagination and inflame my heart.

What had she said?
Nothing to signify; but her eyes had met mine, and the fire they had kindled burned inextinguishably in my veins.

I loved her; and I did not fear to hope.

Twice I had spoken with her; and in both interviews I had been well inspired, I had engaged her sympathies, I had found words that she must remember, that would ring in her ears at night upon her bed.

What mattered if I were half shaved and my clothes a caricature?
I was still a man, and I had drawn my image on her memory.