I remembered how it had seemed to me a thing unapproachable in the life, a creature rather of the painter's craft than of the modesty of nature, and I marvelled at the thought, and exulted in the image of Olalla.

Beauty I had seen before, and not been charmed, and I had been often drawn to women, who were not beautiful except to me; but in Olalla all that I desired and had not dared to imagine was united.
I did not see her the next day, and my heart ached and my eyes longed for her, as men long for morning.

But the day after, when I returned, about my usual hour, she was once more on the gallery, and our looks once more met and embraced.

I would have spoken, I would have drawn near to her; but strongly as she plucked at my heart, drawing me like a magnet, something yet more imperious withheld me; and I could only bow and pass by; and she, leaving my salutation unanswered, only followed me with her noble eyes.
I had now her image by rote, and as I conned the traits in memory it seemed as if I read her very heart.

She was dressed with something of her mother's coquetry, and love of positive colour.