She wore a spotless bodice of white linen, which but indifferently concealed the ripening swell of her young breast.

Her petticoat, of dark red homespun, stopped short above her bare brown ankles, and her little feet were naked.

Her brown hair, long and abundant, was still fastened at the nape of her slim neck, but fell loose beyond that, having been disturbed, no doubt, in her scuffle with Rinolfo.

Her little mouth was deeply red and it held strong young teeth that were as white as milk.
I have since wondered whether she was as beautiful as I deemed her in that moment.

For it must be remembered that mine was the case of the son of Filippo Balducci--related by Messer Boccaccio in the merry tales of his Decamerone 1--who had come to years of adolescence without ever having beheld womanhood, so that the first sight of it in the streets of Florence affected him so oddly that he vexed his sire with foolish questions and still more foolish prayers.
1 In the Introduction to the Fourth Day.
So was it now with me.