“Of you.”

“And he talked of love?”

“Of love for you.”

“To you?”

“To me.”

“And dreamed that you were I? That too?”

“That I was you.”

“Is there more to tell?” Beatrice asked, growing white. “He kissed you in that dream of his—do not tell me he did that—no, tell me—tell me all!”

“He kissed the thing he saw, believing the lips yours.”

“More—more—is it not done yet? Can you sting again? What else?”