Pelleas held her hands, and waited for her lips to be turned to his. Instead, he saw lowered lids and quivering lashes, lips that were plaintive, a face white beneath a wealth of hair.
“Ah, Igraine, you do not look at me.”
Her eyes trembled up to his with a sudden infinite lustre.
“Pelleas!”
“Girl, girl!”
“Ah, I have hardly slept.”
“Nor I, Igraine.”
“I think I am worn out with thinking of you.”
“Ha, little woman, you are extravagant; you will die like a flower even while I hold you in my bosom.”