In all my wanderings I have not beheld the equal of Angela Dieu-donnee.

Though I can see her now, though I learned to paint in order that, however inadequately, I might make her likeness, I am unable to describe her; words can give no idea of the comeliness of her face, the grace of her movements, and the shapeliness of her form.

I have seen women with skins as fair, hair as dark, eyes as deeply blue, but none with the same brightness of look and sweetness of disposition, none with courage as high, temper as serene.
To look at Angela was to love her, though as yet I knew not that I had regained my liberty only to lose my heart.

My feelings at the moment oscillated between admiration of her and a painful sense of my own disreputable appearance.

Bareheaded and shoeless, covered with the dust of the desert, clad only in a torn shirt and ragged trousers, my arms and legs scored with livid marks, I must have seemed a veritable scarecrow.
Angela looked like a queen, or would have done were queens ever so charming, or so becomingly attired.