“Do you know,” she said, “that, as you speak, you make me care for you so much more than I supposed a girl could care for a man?”
“Can you love me?”
“Oh, I do already! I don’t mean mere love. It is something—something that I never knew about before. Everything about you is so—so exactly what I care for—your voice, your head, the way you think, the way you look at me. I never thought of men as I am
thinking about you.... I want you to belong to me—all alone.... I want to see how you look when you are angry, or worried, or tired. I want you to think of me when you are perplexed and unhappy and ill. Will you? You must! There is nobody else, is there? If you do truly love me?”
“Nobody but you.”
“That is what I desire.... I want to live with you—I promise I won’t talk about art—even your art, which I might learn to care for. All I want is to really live and have your troubles to meet and overcome them because I will not permit anything to harm you.... I will love you enough for that.... I—do you love other women?”
“Good God, no!”
“And you shall not!” She leaned closer, looking him through and through. “I will be what you love! I will be what you desire most in all the world. I will be to you everything you wish, in every way, always, ever, and forever and ever.... Will you marry me?”
“Will you?”
“Yes.”