She was tall and yet never looked tall.

It seemed that you could pick her up with a finger, but try and she warned you of the weakness of your arm.

She was a baffling person.

She ran and walked with the joyous insolence of eighteen, yet at any moment some veil might be rolled up in her eyes and face to show you for one tragic instant a Lady of Sorrows.
She leaned towards Luttrell, and as Hardiman had foreseen the perfume of her hair stormed his senses.
"Tell me!" she breathed, and Luttrell, with his arguments and reasons cut and dried and conned over pat for delivery, began nevertheless to babble.

There were the Olympic Games.