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Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], when we came near the point at which our ways diverged,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.
Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], jostled by drunken men and bargaining women,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], amid the curses of labourers,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], who sang a come-all-you about O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], if I spoke to her,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.