You met her somewhere about Carinthia, and gave her the name?
You write--may I refer to the book ?' He received the book and flew through the leaves: 'Here--"A panting look": you write again: "A look of beaten flame: a look of one who has run and at last beholds!" But that is a living face: I see her! Here again: "From minute to minute she is the rock that loses the sun at night and reddens in the morning." You could not create an idea of a woman to move you like that.

No one could, I am certain of it, certain; if so, you 're a wizard--I swear you are.

But that's a face high over beauty.

Just to know there is a woman like her, is an antidote.

You compare her to a rock.