Then, with her wrists bare, she put her hands in the deep, clear water, and recommenced shaking the linen back and forth.
Yes, it was he--tall, slight, a blonde, with his fine beard and his hair curled like that of a god, his complexion as fresh as when she had first seen him under the white shadow of the moonlight.

Since it was he, there was nothing to be feared for the window; were he to touch it, he would only embellish it.

And it was no disappointment to her whatever to find him in this blouse, a workman like herself, a painter on glass, no doubt.

On the contrary, this fact made her smile, so absolutely certain was she of the eventual fulfillment of her dream of royal fortune.

Now, it was simply an appearance, a beginning.