Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. "We don't want him any more, mother. Prince Charming rules life for us now." Then she paused. A rose shook in her blood, and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept over er, and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. "I love him," she said simply.
"Foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer. The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the words.
The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her eyes caught the melody, and echoed it in radiance: then closed for a moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a dream had passed across them.
Chapter V, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, published 1891.
There are so many lovely little delights in this passage. There's something very wild and innocent and fresh and free (just to throw a ton of adjectives into the wind for you to pick and choose from), about Sibyl and I'm beginning to love that. (Even though I can't get past the connotation of Sibyl and Basil from Fawlty Towers, which annoys me a little.)
I haven't been able to stop thinking about what you said, Tangled-up-in-Blue, about wanting to experience it for the very first time all over again. I think that when I've finished reading this, I will feel exactly the same, because all the little thrills are just so exciting as they pop up completely new. I'm loving this book.