"I sat beside you while you were unconscious, and I pictured your face and your mind for myself. I will not have that picture reduced to reality."
"It is a delicate fancy. You are blind? You see by the touch of your hands?"
"I am not blind, but I think I have seen your face through the touch."
"Here! I have stumbled against two chairs. Let us sit down and talk. I will slide this chair farther away if you wish. Do you fear me?"
"No, I think I am not afraid. I am only very sad for you. Listen: I have laid down the revolver. Is that rash?"
"Madame, my life has been clean. Would I stain it now? No, no! Sit here—so! My hand touches yours—you are not afraid?—and a thrill leaps through me. Is it the dark that changes all things and gives eyes to your imagination, or are you really very beautiful?"
"How shall I say?"
"Be very frank, for I am a dying man, am I not? And I should hear the truth."
"You are a profound lover of the beautiful?"
"I am a painter, madame."