What! Distrust Iris! Imagine for one second that riches or poverty, good repute or ill, would affect that loyal heart when its virginal font was filled with the love that once in her life comes to every true woman! Perish the thought! What evil spirit had power to so blind his perception of all that was strong and beautiful in her character.

Brave, uncomplaining Iris! Iris of the crystal soul! Iris, whose innocence and candor were mirrored in her blue eyes and breathed through her dear lips! Here was Othello acting as his own tempter, with not an Iago within a thousand miles.
Laughing at his fantastic folly, Jenks tore the letter into little pieces.

It might have been wiser to throw the sheets into the embers of the fire close at hand, but for the nonce he was overpowered by the great awakening that had come to him, and he unconsciously murmured the musical lines of Tennyson's "Maud": "She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread.
My heart would hear her and beat Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead, Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red." "Good gracious! Don't gaze at me in that fashion.

I don't look like a ghost, do I ?" cried Iris, when near enough to note his rapt expression.
"You would not object if I called you a vision ?" he inquired quietly, averting his eyes lest they should speak more plainly than his tongue.
"Not if you meant it nicely.

But I fear that 'specter' would be a more appropriate word.