My daughter Jane had now grown into a lovely, captivating and high-spirited young woman.

To my fancy, indeed, I never saw her equal in appearance, for the large dark eyes shining in a fair and _spirituelle_ face, encircled by masses of rippling chestnut hair, gave a _bizarre_ and unusual distinction to her beauty, which was enhanced by a tall and graceful figure.

She was witty also and self-willed, qualities which she inherited from her American mother, moreover she adored me and believed in me.

I, who since my wife's death had loved nothing else, loved this pure and noble-minded girl as only a father can love, for my adoration had nothing selfish in it, whereas that of the truest lover, although he may not know it, is in its beginnings always selfish.

He has something to gain, he seeks his own happiness, the father seeks only the happiness of his child.
On the whole, I think that the worship of this daughter of mine is a redeeming point in my character, for which otherwise, sitting in judgment on it as I do to-day, I have no respect.