He does, though he will not acknowledge it even to himself.
"Dulce, my own soul!" he says, brokenly; and, kneeling on the grass at her feet, he lifts both her hands and presses them passionately to his lips.
They are so cold and lifeless that they chill him to his very heart.
CHAPTER XVII.
"Too early seen unknown, and known too late!"
—Romeo and Juliet.
"There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee."
—Henry IV.
It is next day. There has been rain in the night—heavy rain—and the earth looks soaked and brown and desolate. Great storms, too, had arisen, and scattered the unoffending leaves far and wide, until all the paths are strewn with rustling types of death. Just now the drops are falling, too—not so angrily as at the midnight past, but persistently, and with a miserable obstinacy that defies all hope of sunshine. "The windy night" has made "a rainy morrow," and sorrowful, indeed, is the face of Nature.