She was tall and slender, elegantly dressed, and had a wise, boyish face.
She pleased me at once, she belonged to the type that I loved, and she began to work upon my imagination.
She was scarcely older than I, but she was more mature; she was elegant and possessed a good figure,
already almost a woman, but with a touch of youthful exuberance in her features, which pleased me exceedingly.
It was never my good fortune to approach a girl with whom I could have fallen in love, neither was it my luck in this case.
But the impression was deeper than all the former ones, and the influence of this infatuation on my life was powerful.
Suddenly I had again a picture standing before me, a revered picture—
ah, and no need, no impulse was so deep or so strong in me as the desire to revere, to adore.
I gave her the name of Beatrice, of whom, without having read Dante,
I knew something from an English painting, a reproduction of which I had in my possession.
The picture was of an English pre-Raphaelite girlish figure, very long-limbed and slender,
with a small, long head and spiritualized hands and features.
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