She looked at him proudly and gratefully; she lifted her arm as if to thank him by an embrace, and suddenly let it drop again at her side.
“Am I tormenting myself without cause?” she said. “Or is there something that looks like sorrow, showing itself to me in your face?”
“You see the bitterest sorrow that I have felt in all my sad life.”
“Is it sorrow for me?”
“No. Sorrow for myself.”
“Has it come to you through me? Is it my fault?”
“It is more your misfortune than your fault.”
“Then you can feel for me?”
“I can and do.”
He had not yet set her at ease.