Spinosa ground glasses for spectacles; Bayle counted the tiles on the roof; Montesquieu gardened.

The body being thus subdued, the soul could spread its wings in all security.
Madame Mignon, reading her daughter's soul, was therefore right.

Modeste loved; she loved with that rare platonic love, so little understood, the first illusion of a young girl, the most delicate of all sentiments, a very dainty of the heart.

She drank deep draughts from the chalice of the unknown, the vague, the visionary.

She admired the blue plumage of the bird that sings afar in the paradise of young girls, which no hand can touch, no gun can cover, as it flits across the sight; she loved those magic colors, like sparkling jewels dazzling to the eye, which youth can see, and never sees again when Reality, the hideous hag, appears with witnesses accompanied by the mayor.