wondrous warmth and softness, and bring it to my lips, and breathe that most delicate fragrance which ever clings to it; and when I gaze into the luminous depths of your eyes, and behold your spirit burning far, far down in them: oh! my blood seems to catch fire; each breath is like a draught of some magic, intoxicating vapor; I come near to fainting, for the great joy that fills my heart--fills it, and thrills it. I dare say all men who love, and are loved in return, are happy. But none can be so supremely happy as I am, so miraculously happy; because no one else loves you, and is loved by you. And other women are no more like you than--than dust is like fire, than glass is like diamond, than water is like wine. You mustn't laugh at me for saying this. It is really, honestly true. They resemble you in outward form, of course; they, too, have hands and feet, shaped more or less upon the same pattern that yours are shaped upon. But you--you have something--something which I can not name or describe--something subtle, impalpable, and yet unmistakable--something supersensual, celestial--which makes you as different from them as--it is a grotesque comparison, but it will show you what I mean--as a magnet is different from common iron. It is a difference of quality, which I can not find any words exactly to define. I suppose really that it is simply your soul--that you have a purer, finer soul than other women. Whatever it is, I recognized it, and felt it, with a thick thrill, as one feels an electric spark, the first time I ever saw you--reflected in that old, time-stained looking-glass, between the windows in your father's shop. I recognize and feel it perpetually, everywhere I go. All the other women that I see have about them a touch of the earth, from which you are free; and they lack that touch of heaven, which you have....