Her robe, which I know she must have made with her own hands, clung about her with a cunning grace.

After the fashion of that country, besides, her bodice stood open in the middle, in a long slit, and here, in spite of the poverty of the house, a gold coin, hanging by a ribbon, lay on her brown bosom.

These were proofs, had any been needed, of her inborn delight in life and her own loveliness.

On the other hand, in her eyes that hung upon mine, I could read depth beyond depth of passion and sadness, lights of poetry and hope, blacknesses of despair, and thoughts that were above the earth.

It was a lovely body, but the inmate, the soul, was more than worthy of that lodging.