"A lock of hair or something? Are you as childish as all that?"
"No—not as childish as all that."
"A flower, then—or what?"
"No, nothing like that."
"You want me to write something, then?"
"No, no. I want yourself—your very self!"
Olof looked at her blankly—he could not guess what was in her mind. He felt himself more and more in the power of something he had been striving to escape.
"Oh, don't you understand? Your portrait."
"But—but I have only one. And—I have never given anyone my portrait."
"No," said the girl confidently. "You have kept it for me."