She might easily have brought the matter to an end; and why she did not, she knew no more than a kitten waking to consciousness under its first caress.
"Say it," she repeated, laughing uncertainly back into his smiling eyes of a boy.
"Say what ?" "That you are contented." "I can't." "Mr.Siward, it is unkind, it is shameless--" "I know it; I am that sort." "Then I am sorry for you.

Look at that!" turning her left hand in his so that the jewel on the third finger caught the light.
"I see it." "And yet--" "And yet." "That," she observed with composure, "is sheer obstinacy.

...

Isn't it ?" "It is what I said it was: a hopeful discontent." "How can it be ?" impatiently now, for the long, unaccustomed contact was unnerving her--yet she made no motion to withdraw her hands.

"How can you really care for me?
Do you actually believe that--devotion--comes like that ?" "Exactly like that." "So suddenly?
It is impossible!" with a twist of her pretty shoulders.
"How did it come--to you ?" he asked between his teeth.
Then her face grew scarlet and her eyes grew dark, and her hands contracted in his--tightened, twisted fingers entangled, until, with a little sob, she swayed toward him and he caught her.