It was a delicate, shapely little hand, soft as velvet, and warm--a real human hand; only now when I held it did she seem altogether like a human being and not a mocking spirit of the wood, a daughter of the Didi.
"Do you like me to hold your hand, Rima ?" "Yes," she replied, with indifference.
"Is it I ?" "Yes." This time as if it was small satisfaction to make acquaintance with this purely physical part of me.
Having her so close gave me an opportunity of examining that light sheeny garment she wore always in the woods.

It felt soft and satiny to the touch, and there was no seam nor hem in it that I could see, but it was all in one piece, like the cocoon of the caterpillar.

While I was feeling it on her shoulder and looking narrowly at it, she glanced at me with a mocking laugh in her eyes.
"Is it silk ?" I asked.

Then, as she remained silent, I continued: "Where did you get this dress, Rima?
Did you make it yourself?
Tell me." She answered not in words, but in response to my question a new look came into her face; no longer restless and full of change in her expression, she was now as immovable as an alabaster statue; not a silken hair on her head trembled; her eyes were wide open, gazing fixedly before her; and when I looked into them they seemed to see and yet not to see me.

They were like the clear, brilliant eyes of a bird, which reflect as in a miraculous mirror all the visible world but do not return our look and seem to see us merely as one of the thousand small details that make up the whole picture.