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Summary
Allen laughed, low; there was the flash of something across is face, all at once ancient and impossibly young. It was difficult to read, but it had been there, and it was captivating. It seemed to Link that there, right in front of him, was the greatest product of Western Civilisation's vast imagination; Venus im Pelz, only manifest now as a boy.
He glanced back at the book itself; at the draperied lady, glossy and mooncheeked on the front cover. Idly, he thought she paled in comparison to Allen. He wasn't exactly an ideal beauty, of course. After all, the baroque figures of those Roman deities typically went without jagged scars or monstrous arms. All the same, he was alive and present, and his eyes were fantastically bright. The sort that might bring those silly German authors to their knees; the eloquence of their suffering an inspiration.
More simply put; Link thought Allen was kind of beautiful.