Her cheeks were very thin; her eyes were dark and sunken.

Wilfrid saw only the soul in her gaze at him, and that was as it had ever been.
She was unable to speak; Wilfrid found words.
'Do you often walk here?
Is your home near ?' 'Not very near.

I came by the river,' she answered.
'I am very glad that I have met you.' The words sounded insufficient, but Wilfrid was by this time at battle with himself, and succeeded in saying less than he felt.

'You will let me walk on a little way with you?
We can't shake hands at once and say good-bye, can we, after such a long time ?' He spoke in the tone one uses to jest over bygone sadness.

Emily made no verbal answer, but walked along by his side.
'You still have your old habits,' he said, casting an eye at the book.
'Are your tastes still the same, I wonder ?' 'It is Dante,' she replied.
The name brought another to Wilfrid's consciousness; he averted his eyes for a moment, but spoke again without much delay.
'Still faithful to the great names.