“Did you really love him?” asked Harriette again, trying to draw her out.
“Now, don’t ask me anything more, for I am not going to tell you,” replied Clara.
“But you said you would and I am really curious,” continued Harriette.
Clara hesitated, then said: “I don’t feel like it now, but sometime I’ll tell you the story.”
She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought;
And with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat (like patience on a monument)
Smiling at grief.