“It may not be so much as we think,” said she.
“But if we do!”
“Then, Nevil, there is a difference between us.”
“But if we keep our lips closed?”
“We should have to shut our eyes as well!”
A lovely melting image of her stole over him; all the warmer for her unwittingness in producing it: and it awakened a tenderness toward the simple speaker.
Cecilia’s delicate breeding saved her from running on figuratively. She continued: “Intellectual differences do not cause wounds, except when very unintellectual sentiments are behind them:—my conceit, or your impatience, Nevil? ‘Noi veggiam come quei, che ha mala luce.’... I can confess my sight to be imperfect: but will you ever do so?”
Her musical voice in Italian charmed his hearing.
“What poet was that you quoted?”
“The wisest: Dante.”