Then, it seemed an identity but now that I know your face better, the likeness is far less apparent. Your head in marble would be a treasure to me. It troubles me to be looked at steadfastly. It is a kind of nervousness, I apprehend, which you caught in the Roman air, and which grows upon you, in your solitary life. It is not my will, but my necessity, to avoid men's eyes.
Nothing is more unaccountable than the spell that often lurks in a spoken word.
He trembled either with anger or terror, and glared at the sculptor with wide eyes, like a wolf that meets you in the forest, and hesitates whether to flee or turn to bay. But, as Kenyon still looked calmly at him, his aspect gradually became less disturbed, though far from resuming its former quietude. Within a day or two after our last meeting at the Church of the Capuchins, I called at her studio and found it vacant. Whither she has gone, I cannot tell. Donatello asked no further questions.