The longer I contemplate her, the
more does she assume in my eyes the aspect of some ethereal creature, of
a being formed of "such stuff as dreams are made of."
'She shall grow up nourished and enwrapped by the flame of my love--of
my great, my _only_ love----
'_September 24th._--I can form no resolve--I can decide upon no plan of
action. I am simply abandoning myself a little to this new sentiment,
shutting my eyes to the distant peril, and my ears to the warning voice
of conscience, with the shuddering temerity of one who, in gathering
violets, ventures too near the edge of a precipice at the foot of which
roars a hungry torrent.
'He shall never know anything from my lips, I shall never know anything
from his. Our two souls will mount together, for a brief space, to the
mountain-tops of the Ideal, will drink side by side at the perennial
fountains, and then each go on its separate way, encouraged and
refreshed.
'How still the air is this afternoon! The sea has the faint milky-blue
tints of the opal, of Murano glass, with here and there a patch like a
mirror dimmed by a breath.
'I am reading Shelley, a favourite poet with him, that divine Ariel
feeding upon light and speaking with the tongues of angels. It is
night----
'_September 25th._--_Mio Dio! Mio Dio!_ His voice when he spoke my
name--the tremor in it--oh, I thought my heart was breaking in my bosom,
and that I must inevitably lose consciousness.
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