"I want you to be my wife, and I hope, with all my heart, that you will say 'Yes.'" "'With all your heart,'" she echoed, slowly, almost inaudibly.

"'With all your heart.' With all mine, I answer 'Yes.'" As she murmured the words--and, like that of most cold women when they are intensely moved, her voice could be exquisitely sweet with its thrill of passion, all the sweeter for its rarity--she insensibly drew nearer to him and her hand stole to his shoulder.

Her eyes were lifted to his, and they shone with the love that was coursing through her veins, almost stopping the beating of her heart.

Love radiated from her as the light radiated from the lamp the mocking satyr held above them.
Stafford was at his best and worst, a man and not a block of stone and wood, and touched, almost fired, by the passion so close to him, he put his arm round her waist and bent his head until his lips nearly touched hers.
Her eyes closed and she was surrendering herself to the kiss, when suddenly she drew her head back, and, keeping him from her, looked up at him.

"Is it with all your heart ?" she whispered.