"Ay—all of them! And each hour a year, and each nightfall a closing century. Silver Heels! Silver Heels! You are unchanged, dear heart!"
"Thin to my bones, and very, very old—like you, Michael."
"We have young souls."
"Yes, Michael. We are young in all save sorrow."
"And you are so tall, Silver Heels—"
"Span my waist!"
"My hand would span it. Ah! Your head comes not above my chin for all your willow growth!"
"Your hands are rough, Sir Michael."
"Your hands are satin, sweet."
"Yet I wash my kerchief and my shifts in suds."