touch it though, for Paul Vasher has leapt the gate, has caught her in his arms, and is looking down on her with a strange expression as the groom hastily dismounts and catches his mistress's horse.
Bring her in!" says Mr. Frere, pale with alarm. (Are not old bachelors and old maids easily daunted?) And Paul brings her in, and lays her down in the big arm-chair, in which I found him sitting a few hours ago. I do not think she has fainted, but her eyes are shut, and she makes neither sigh nor moan, nor does she stir hand or foot. As I look her, I hold my breath for wonder at her. Well might Shakespeare have said of her, "for the poor rude world hath not her fellow." She is all white and gold, like a pure lily, and as tall; for though her little hands and feet might belong to a child, she is really of fair stature, and so softly, sensuously lovely at all points, in every dimple and curve of cheek, lip, chin, and body, that it is a feast of the eye to look upon her while—
The painter plays the spider, and hath woven
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men
Faster than gnats in cobwebs."
Once I look at Mr. Vasher, then back again at her, for the face fascinates it. I do not like it, but, oh! I love to look at what is rare and unusual; and is not this such a picture as a man might dream of and sigh after, all his life long, and never see? Mrs. Pim is trying to pour brandy down her throat, but the beautiful mouth does not unclose, the fast-set teeth do not unlock, and yet somehow she does not give me the idea of being an insensible woman. I am thinking this, when she opens her eyes with a long-drawn, shuddering sigh, and looks about her, first at one, then another! She does not see Paul, who is standing behind her.
