It was entirely preposterous that a young woman should kneel at an attic window in a flood of spring moonlight, with, her hair about the shoulders of her nightgown, repeating Rossetti to the wakeful budding garden, especially as it was for herself she did it--nobody else saw her.

She knelt there partly because of a vague desire to taste the essence of the spring and the garden and Rossetti at once, and partly because she felt the romance of the foolish situation.

She knew of the shadow her hair made around her throat, and that her eyes were glorious in the moonlight.

Going back to bed, she paused before the looking-glass and wafted a kiss, as she blew the candle out, to the face she saw there.
It was such a pretty face, and so full of tire spirit of.

Rossetti and the moonlight, that she couldn't help it.