Until he found her, he could not help adoring others who possessed little pieces and suggestions of her--her brilliancy, her courage, her short upper lip, "like a curled roseleaf," or her dear voice, or her pure profile.

He had no recollection of any lady who had quite her eyes.
He had never passed a lovely stranger on the street, in the old days, without a thrill of delight and warmth.

If he never saw her again, and the vision only lasted the time it takes a lady to cross the sidewalk from a shop door to a carriage, he was always a little in love with her, because she bore about her, somewhere, as did every pretty girl he ever saw, a suggestion of the far-away divinity.

One does not pass lovely strangers in the streets of Plattville.

Miss Briscoe was pretty, but not at all in the way that Harkless dreamed.