His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide.
His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before. He saw her urge her vanities, her fine dress and sash and lock black stockings, and knew that he had yielded to them a thousand times.
-James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man