She could not imagine the sound of his voice, she could not recall anything that he had said.

Yet she felt again the magic feeling of meeting him, and dreamt of all the things that might have happened, and that might yet happen, yet never would happen, between him and her.

All the best things that she remembered had only happened in her dreams, her imagination no sooner sipped the first sip of an experience than it conjured up for her great absurd satisfying draughts of nectar, for which the waking Sarah Brown might thirst in vain.

But there was no waking Sarah Brown.

Her life was only a sleep-walking; only very rarely did she awake for a moment and feel ashamed to see how alert was the world about her.
So she thought of Richard, not of Richard's Richard, but of some pale private Richard of her own.
The approach of Richard upon a white horse for some time seemed only an extension of her dream.