She was pure--perfectly, absolutely immaculate; but there
was another power within and transfused throughout her innocence
that swayed and subdued my will as innocence alone could never do.
She reminded me of some exquisite, delicate porcelain flagon filled
with sparkling wine, that sends its hot crimson glow through the
snowy transparent tints of its circling walls. The wine within lies,
at present, in glowing tranquillity, unshaken and unstirred, and the
beauty and the purity of the flagon grows upon one as one looks. One
would hesitate certainly to stretch an unclean hand to lift it,
hesitate to touch it with lips that were not pure--but as certainly
one sees that, if hand and lip are clean, and one may raise it to
oneself, there is intoxication within that cup. Though its brilliant
walls are white, they are not so because they hold thin water or
turgid milk or yet vacancy. Of the nature of porcelain, they are
clear and brilliant, for as such they left the potter's hands; but
that faint flush stealing through them tells us that that within is
wine. And as the purity of a cup like this is different from that of
a clean, thick, common china cup standing empty on the board, so was
Lucia different from the ordinary virtuous English girl. And for her
I would do and suffer much, and feel glad in it. I looked upon her
as this vase, and since I had known her I had kept my hand clean,
that one day I might take it without remorse.
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