No word could better describe the timeless beauty that was before me. She enchanted my eyes; I was powerless to look away. Nothing could break this spell, not the brush of people as they passed by, not the rhythmic music filling the room, not even the Queen herself could have forced my gaze away.
"My, Higgins, it's a complete transformation. By George, have you ever seen anything like her?" Pickering's voice was mere buzzing in my ear. I gave no response.
Eliza gracefully made her way over to us. I watched as she raised her eyebrows ever so slightly.
"Well Professor, what do you think?" Her words were more musical to me than the violins strumming in the next room. I had created that music out of noise. Noise: that was what Eliza spoke when she came to me three months earlier. Noise was all I heard out of the mouths of common folk. Eliza's speech, now that I've punched and squashed, beaten and moulded it, is music. Music fit for the ears of God. And now I saw, with her appearance, she could have passed for an angel.
I knew every possible sound that could be uttered from the lips of an English man. I knew all the dialects depending on background and location. I had written countless essays on words, conducted experiments on words. The whole of my life was spent on studying words.
But I opened my mouth to respond, and could not utter a single syllable.