From where I sit just now I can see her walking up the avenue. She is
as straight as an arrow, young-looking, and fresh. Her step is firm and
light and elastic, and she moves with an easy grace only possible when
every muscle is unconstrained. Her dress is a work of art, light in
weight, but rich in colour and texture.
"What a beautiful woman!" I think involuntarily. I see her daily, and
pay her that tribute every time we meet, for--
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety.
Her intellect and selflessness preserve her youth. She is changed,
certainly. She has arisen, and can return no more to the lower walks,
to the old purposeless life, and desultory ways; but yet she is the
same Ideala, and holds you always expectant--you, who see beneath the
surface. The world will call her cold and self-contained till the end,
and so she is and will be--a snow-crowned volcano, with wonderful force
of fire working within. And she will not stop where she is; there is
something yet to come--some further development--something more--
something beyond! and she makes you feel that there is.
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