In his eyes I am a soul, and souls are to him exactly what the tiniest plants in my father's great garden were to him; he would have liked to protect them from frost with the warmth of his own heart, and make then grow and flower by communicating his own vitality to them.

But I am a soul like any other soul, the only difference perhaps being, that he deems me further removed from the truth, and consequently more exposed to frost.
But this is not apparent in his bearing.
As to myself, dearest, I certainly have a deep feeling for him, but it would be abominable to say that this feeling in the least resembles what men call by the familiar name.

This sentiment is one of reverence, of a kind of devout fear, of awe; I feel his person is surrounded by something like a magic circle, into which I should never dare to penetrate.

My heart beats no faster in his presence.

I think, indeed, it beats more slowly but of this I am not sure.