Yet, transformed as I was into them, I never thought myself of becoming anything to any body.

I made no reflection that individually affected me; I sought nothing around me: it was a dream without awaking.

Yet I remember having beheld with much agitation a young painter named Taboral, who called on my father occasionally.

He was about twenty years of age, with a sweet voice, intelligent countenance, and blushed like a girl.

When I heard him in the _atelier_, I had always a pencil or something to look after; but as his presence embarrassed as much as it pleased me, I went away quicker than I entered, with a palpitating heart, a tremor that made me run and hide myself in my little room." Although her mother was very pious, she did not forbid her daughter from reading.