Their hands touched, their knees touched. They were both trembling.

There was as much emotion generated between them now as if they had been lovers.

The presence of the loved one is perhaps always accompanied by anxiety. Mortals must tremble, where angels might enjoy. But this one grain of darkness cannot be accounted a blemish. It graces the present moment with a kind of violence which makes an ecstasy of time.

Of course, my dear, I cannot, how could I, altogether regret what has happened.

I was perhaps moreover a little the dupe of that illusion of lovers that the beloved object must, somehow, respond, that an extremity of love not only merits but compels some return.

Mercifully one forgets one's love affairs as one forgets one's dreams.