My Saint is dear to me, / Myra herself is she, / She fair and true. / Myra that knows to move / Passions of love with love: / Fortune, Adieu.
Her eyes, whose colour I had not at first known, so dim were they with repressed tears, so shadowed with ceaseless dejection, now, lit by a ray of the sunshine that cheered her heart, revealed irids of bright hazel – irids large and full, screened with long lashes; and pupils instinct with fire.
His insincerity was obvious to all; he was neither honest nor believable.
[…] a tall, slim figure with the young face of an antique Pharaoh, gay with prismatic robes and crowned with a golden pshent that glowed with inherent light.
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