It reminded him so much of the mouth and eyes of one who sings beside a Botticelli Madonna, so spiritual.

Again, hot as steel, came up the pain in him.

Why must he ask her for the other thing?
Why was there his blood battling with her?
If only he could have been always gentle, tender with her, breathing with her the atmosphere of reverie and religious dreams, he would give his right hand.

It was not fair to hurt her.

There seemed an eternal maidenhood about her; and when he thought of her mother, he saw the great brown eyes of a maiden who was nearly scared and shocked out of her virgin maidenhood, but not quite, in spite of her seven children.
They had been born almost leaving her out of count, not of her, but upon her.