The Dewy Morn by Richard Jefferies

Felise was thinking: "How well he talks -- what ideas he has! his voice is low, but it is deep and strong; his lips are well-shaped -- I should like a kiss. That is a shabby old coat; yes, your coat is much worn, sir, but it suits you; you look a gentleman all the more, perhaps. How I should like to give you a new one! Who gave you that gold pin in your tie, I wonder -- some woman? His ears are good; most men have ill-formed ears. His hair is very fine, like silk. I wonder what he is thinking of -- me -- is he thinking of me at all? There is a small mole on his neck. Why doesn't he look at me -- he has such fine eyes? Your hands are not small, sir, nor are they white. I do not like white hands; they look as if they could not do anything. Your hands are a little sun-browned, and they are not small and feeble; I think you could give anyone a hard knock, though you are not very big. Why don't you look at me? Look at me straight in the face, now do, there's a dear! I hope he is trustful, but why does he look away? -- he looks anywhere rather than at me. Yes, you have a very good neck -- that makes your head appear so good. Why do you want to hide your eyes? I wish my hair was just the same shade as his; how nice it must be to have hair that colour! His boots have been mended. Ah! it is hard times with him -- wish I was sharing them! His handkerchief wants darning. How glad I am I gave him his horse again! How angry papa will be when he finds out what I did! He is handsome -- I wonder how many girls have flattered him! I dare say he is quite spoilt. Will he ever like me? He will not look at me; I will contradict him presently, then perhaps he will."

Martial was thinking: "How fortunate I exhausted all my romance before I met her! There is no knowing to what lengths I should have gone; but luckily all those extravagances are gone by. These are very common old Windsor chairs. I don't believe our miserly steward has a respectable chair in his dog-kennel, i.e. his house -- wretched hard old chairs; but how gracefully she rests herself in hers! Her body seems to poise on itself and repose without the chair, as if the chair was merely put there to content the eye of the spectator; she rests like an Immortal on the ether. Really she does do things nicely -- to see her walk, it is a picture. I think she sighs now and then. I believe she breathed more deeply just then; of course she does that because it makes her bust swell and fall more. Oh yes, the cunning of these women is something beyond the power of man to circumvent. Breathe as deeply as you like, it is no use. I am case-hardened. I have been through all these experiences -- old birds and chaff, you have heard. Very beautiful no doubt, but still a woman. Very interesting indeed. I know more than you think. What a lovely shoulder she has beneath that dress -- I shall never forget it. You don't know what a view I had when you were bathing. And her hair reaches down to her knee, very nearly; thick, too, wavy and fine. But that is nothing to her shape and her knee -- there, she has just moved her knee. I can see it quite plainly through the dress as I saw it then, white and dewy from the water. She makes believe to listen to everything I say -- just as if she cared, just as if she liked what I say about things. What a stupid I am to talk to her of anything beside a bonnet! I can feel she keeps looking at me; very likely she wants to try another glance on me -- long and passionate. No, no, nothing of the kind; I won't permit you. I will keep my eyes on the grass or the trees as firm as possible. In the sonnets there is a line -- pooh! I will not remember such folly. I wish she would move a little farther away. I can feel her sitting near me. I don't like this -- when's Godwin coming? I must get out of it. Her shoulder and her neck, and her white knee -- her dress is quite transparent to me. I never could have thought there was anyone so lovely in the world. Now her hand -- there it is drooping; it is not only white, it is lit up within with some delicious light -- some clearness, as if it was the dawn under the skin. There, she has raised her hand; she rests her head against it a moment. Now see, it is not transparent like that of anyone very ill; it is plump, but it is alight, aglow -- the dawn is inside it. She is Greek, and yet she is not; she is English-Greek; the mingling of the styles of the antique and the English produces the greatest beauty. She feels delicious to sit by; something seems to influence me; it is extraordinarily pleasant sitting by her. There is something dreamy in it, as if she were Cytherea. Here, what am I at! Romancing. She's only a woman. However, I need not worry myself about occasional lapses. I am hardened enough, in all conscience. This sort of creature is very well as a Picture; you don't want to get excited over it. She looked straight at me then. No, I am not going to look at you -- much too cold for that. Must say something, I suppose. Now I have sat by her once, I could do so every day without the least danger. There, the sunlight has touched her hair -- "