"This but maketh your eyes the bluer, Martin. And then you are changed besides—so much more gentle—kindlier—the man I dreamed you might become—" Here I kissed her.
"And you," said I, "my Damaris that I have ever loved and shall do, you are more beautiful than my dream of you—"
"Am I, Martin—in spite of these things?" "Indeed," said I heartily, "they do but reveal to me so much of—"
Here she kissed me and brought me to the table. Now, seeing her as she sat thus beside me, I started and stared, well-nigh open-mouthed.
"What now?" she questioned.
"Your hair!"
"'Twill grow again, Martin. But why must you stare?"
"Because when you look and turn so, and your hair short on your shoulders, you are marvellously like to Joanna." Now at this, seeing how my lady shrank and turned from me, I could have cursed my foolish tongue.
"What of her, Martin?"
"She is dead!" And here I described how bravely Joanna had met Death standing, and her arms outstretched to the infinite. When I had done, my lady was silent, as expecting more, and her head still averted.