"Dear one," he answered, "there's nothing else for me."
"Now you're telling me lies," she wept. "There is something I can't give you; and that you must go looking for somewhere else."
"No, Rachel. I love you."
"As you loved Anna—once."
"Don't! I never loved Anna—or anyone. Or anything."
"I can't help it, Erik. Forgive me, please. I love you so. Don't you see how I love you. I keep trying to be something besides myself and to give other names to the things I feel. But they're only sentimental things. My dreams are only sentimental dreams—of your kissing me, holding me, being my husband. Oh, go way from me, Erik, before I make you hate me! You thought I was different. And I did too. I was different. But you've changed me. Women are all the same when they love. Differences go away."
She looked up at him with tear-running eyes.
"Different than other people! But now I'm the same. I love you as any other woman would. Only perhaps a little more. With my whole soul and life."
"Foolish to talk," he whispered back to her. "Words only scratch at things. I love you as if I had never seen you or kissed you."
"But I'm not a dream, Erik. Oh, it sounds silly. But I want you."