She was romantic in the highest degree; she was all idealty and poetry.

She had no idea of the realities of life; she had the vaguest possible idea that there was wickedness in the world, but that ever deceit or treachery should come near her was an idea that never entered her romantic mind.
She was too old to be at school; had her mother been living, she would have been removed from there.

She would have had friends and admirers, her love and affection would have found proper objects, and the great calamity of her life would have been averted.

Heaven help and guide any foolish, romantic girl left without the guidance of mother or friend! She thought nothing of the impropriety of meeting the young artist unknown to any one.

She remembered only the romance of it--a genius, a handsome young genius was dying for love of her, for her sake; he was going away, to leave home, friends and country, going to die in exile, simply for love of her; to lay down all the brilliant hopes of his life, to give up all his dreams, all his plans, because he found her so fair he could no longer live in her presence.