"Yes, I remember.

It is an odd feeling.

I suppose every one has felt it at times--only each one of us likes to think that he is the particular instance." "It is trite, I know," he said with a smile, "but feeling is never very original, is it?
Only thought is new." "But I would rather have feeling, wouldn't you ?" she asked in a low voice, and sat waiting in a lovely attitude, prepared without and within, for the moment that was approaching.

There was no excitement in such things now, she had had too much experience; but there was an unending interest.
"Then it isn't too late ?" he asked quickly; and again after a pause in which she did not answer: "Corinna, is it too late ?" For a minute longer she looked up at him in silence.

The glow was still in her eyes; the smile was still on her lips; and it seemed to him that she was wrapped in some enchantment which wrought not in actual life but in allegory--that the light in which she moved belonged less to earth than to Botticelli's springtime.