But I'm sorry to see you're still only thinking of _our_ happiness--I mean _yours_," she corrected herself in haste, for a sudden eager hope flashed across Peter's miserable young face.

"Yours, yours, _yours_.
It's your happiness and not hers you think of still, though you've all your life before you, and she has only half hers.

But no one has ever thought of her--except me, and one other." "John Crewys ?" said Peter, angrily.
"Not John Crewys at all," snapped Sarah.

"He is just thinking of his own happiness like you are.

All men are alike, except the one I'm thinking of.