Ah, Miss Natasha! Thine countenance is a balm upon my weary soul.
I fear I have fallen victim to mine own most secret of dreams. That single thought is enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and mortification of myself, and in defiance of all consequences,) is indulged.