Her soft eyes looked up to her lover's face with infinite trustfulness, and their violet depths were like clear crystal and as tender as the twilight of a perfect day.

She looked at him, her head thrown back, one ivory arm between it and the cushion, the other hand stretched out to welcome his.

Her mouth was like a southern rose when there is dew on the smooth red leaves.

In a maze of creamy shadows, the fine web of her garment followed the lines of her resting limbs in delicate folds, and one small white foot was quite uncovered.
Her fan of ostrich feathers lay idle on the Persian carpet.
"Come, my beloved," she said.

"I have waited long." Contarini knelt down, and first he kissed the arching instep, and then her hand, that felt like a young dove just stirring under his touch, and his lips caressed the satin of her arm, and at last, with a fierce little choking cry, they found her own that waited for them, and there was no more room for words.