A lover, her betrothed, yes.

Many, perhaps, knew her lover's name.

I did not, but I witnessed her love as no other person had.

And that simple gesture of kissing the paper, that gesture buried in a room, stripped bare by the dark, had something sublime and awesome in it.
She rose and went closer to the window, the white letter folded in her grey hand.
The night thickened--and it seemed to me as if I no longer knew her age, nor her name, nor the work she happened to be doing down here, nor anything about her--nothing at all.

She gazed at the pale immensity, which touched her.