“Do you think it is possible to me to exaggerate what a word from you is to me?” said Frank, in a low voice of intense feeling.
“O Frank! it is wiser not to say such things.”
“Wise! what is that to me? It is true, and you have known it—and why will you not allow that you do, as in those happy old days—”
“That’s what makes me fear. It would be so much better for you if all this had never begun.”
“It has begun, then!” murmured Frank, with joy and triumph in the sound. “As long as you allow that, it is enough for me.”
“I must! It is true; and truth must be somewhere!” was whispered in a strange, low, resolute whisper.
“True! true that you can feel one particle of the intensity—Oh! what words can I find to make you understand the glow and tenderness the very thought of you has been!”
“Hush, hush!—pray, Frank. Now, if I do own it—”
“It—what? Let me hear! I’m very stupid, you know!” said Frank, in a voice of exulting comprehension, belying his alleged stupidity.
“What you have been to me—”