"You said that it was a love‑song, Anina, and it was sad because love is sad. Do you—think love is always sad?" He put out his hand awkwardly and touched hers.
"Do you, Anina?" he whispered.
Her little figure swayed toward him. She half turned, and in her shining eyes he saw the light that needs no words to make its meaning clear.
The timidity that so often before had restrained him was swept away; he took her abruptly into his arms, kissing her hair, her eyes, her lips.
"Love isn't—always very sad, is it, Anina?"
Her arms held him close.
"I—I don't know," she breathed against his shoulder. "But it's—it's very—wonderful."