"I fear I have not the gift for divining people that you have."
"Do you hear the wind moan now, Helen?"
She turned crimson, and said: "Let us go to the window; I think it rains."
We stood within the curtains, and listened to its pattering on the floor of the piazza, and trickling down the glass like tears.
"Helen, if one could weep as quietly as this rain falls, and keep the face as unwrinkled as the glass, it would be pretty to weep."
"Is it hard for you to cry?"
"I can't remember; it is so long since."
My ear caught the sound of a step on the piazza.
"Who is that?" she asked.
"It is a man."