There she stopped. The fervour she repressed in speech threw a glow over her face, like that on a frosty bare autumn sky after sunset.
I pressed my lips to her hand.
In our silence another of the fatal yellow volumes thumped the floor.
She looked into my eyes and asked,
'Have we been speaking before a witness?'
So thoroughly had she renovated me, that I accused and reproved the lurking suspicion with a soft laugh.
'Beloved! I wish we had been.'
'If it might be,' she said, divining me and musing.
'Why not?'
She stared.