"I don't know what it is, except that all of it, every aspect of it, understand, is bred right here." He tapped his forehead. "It begins in the brain, not in the body. Love is not lust, Judith."
Judith scowled thoughtfully. Peter let the thought soak in; then he said, "And when real love comes, it takes possession of your mind and turns it into heaven and hell."
"Is that the way it came to you, Peter?"
"Yes!"
"How many times?"
"Twice. And I wouldn't want to endure it again."
"There's a poem like that," said Judith, somewhat blushingly, "Do you mind poetry? I read lots of it."
"One should at sixteen," returned the postmaster. "No, I don't mind poetry. What were you thinking of?"
Judith, still blushing, gave a cautious glance at the bed and began:
"He who for love hath undergone
The worst that can befall,
Is happier thousandfold than he
Who never loved at all.