She was twenty years old; she was dainty and sweet, peach-bloomy and exquisite, gracious and lovely in character, and I stood in awe of her, for she seemed to me to be made out of angel-clay and rightfully unapproachable by an unholy ordinary kind of a boy like me.

I probably never suspected her.

But-- The scene changes.

To Calcutta--forty-seven years later.

It was in 1896.
I arrived there on my lecturing trip.