I remembered a story written by Henry James. It was the story of a young girl named Isabel. A girl who was as brave as she was beautiful, who was pure of heart and as unafraid to love. His description of Isabel mirrored that of Carolyn and I wondered out loud how it was possible for him to have known her when he wrote that story over a century ago. But, I suppose, it was because he was writing about his dream of a pure and brave American girl, one who comes along maybe once every hundred years, if we are lucky.
