There are none in heaven.

Look at the friend who speaks to thee; she who holds thee above this earth in which are all abysses.

Look, behold, contemplate me yet a moment longer, for never again wilt thou see me, save imperfectly as the pale twilight of this world may show me to thee." Seraphita stood erect, her head with floating hair inclining gently forward, in that aerial attitude which great painters give to messengers from heaven; the folds of her raiment fell with the same unspeakable grace which holds an artist--the man who translates all things into sentiment--before the exquisite well-known lines of Polyhymnia's veil.
Then she stretched forth her hand.

Wilfrid rose.

When he looked at Seraphita she was lying on the bear's-skin, her head resting on her hand, her face calm, her eyes brilliant.