There's in my mind a woman of innocence, unadorned but fair-featured, and smelling of apples or grass. She wears a utopian smock or shift, her hair is light brown and smooth, and she is kind and very clean without ostentation –                      but she has no imagination.                      And there's a turbulent moon-ridden girl or old woman, or both, dressed in opals and rags, feathers and torn taffeta, who knows strange songs – but she is not kind.