Her name was Diana....
Yes, and a married woman; and a proclaimed one! And notwithstanding those brassy facts, he was ready to side with the evidence declaring her free from stain; and further, to swear that her blood was Diana's! Nor had Dacier ever been particularly poetical about women.

The present Diana had wakened his curiosity, had stirred his interest in her, pricked his admiration, but gradually, until a sleepless night with its flock of raven-fancies under that dominant Bell, ended by colouring her, the moment she stood in his eyes, as freshly as the morning heavens.
We are much influenced in youth by sleepless nights: they disarm, they predispose us to submit to soft occasion; and in our youth occasion is always coming.
He heard her voice.

She had risen up the grass-mound, and he hung brooding half-way down.

She was dressed in some texture of the hue of lavender.

A violet scarf loosely knotted over the bosom opened on her throat.