I think I have loved you from the first day we met.

Perhaps I shouldn't have spoken yet, but, Ruth, dear, if you only knew what a sweet girl you are, you wouldn't blame me." "I don't blame you," she said, almost in a whisper; "I blame myself.

I have been a bad friend to you, who have been so loyal and loving to me.
I ought not to have let this happen.

For it can't be, Paul; I can't say what you want me to say.

We can never be anything more to one another than friends." A cold hand seemed to grasp my heart--a horrible fear that I had lost all that I cared for--all that made life desirable.
"Why can't we ?" I asked.