"Yes, Charmian."
"And worship her—for her—spotless purity?"
"I dreamed a paragon—perfect and impossible; I was a fool!" said I.
"Impossible! Oh, Peter! what—what do you mean?"
"She was only an impalpable shade quite impossible of realization—a bloodless thing, as you said, and quite unnatural—a sickly figment of the imagination. I was a fool!"
"And you are—too wise now, to expect—such virtues—in any woman?"
"Yes," said I; "no—oh, Charmian! I only know that you have taken this phantom's place—that you fill all my thoughts—sleeping, and waking—"
"No! No!" she cried, and struggled in my arms, so that I caught her hands, and held them close, and kissed them many times.
"Oh, Charmian! Charmian!—don't you know—can't you see—it is you I want—you, and only you forever; whatever you were—whatever you are—I love you—love you, and always must! Marry me, Charmian!—marry me! and you shall be dearer than my life—more to me than my soul—" But, as I spoke, her hands were snatched away, her eyes blazed into mine, and her lips were all bitter scorn, and at the sight, fear came upon me.
"Marry you!" she panted; "marry you?—no and no and no!" And so she stamped her foot, and sobbed, and turning, fled from me, out of the cottage.