It is hope, not despair--it is all that life and joy can mean, in the highest." He paused, his eyes in hers, his hand still stretched out and lying on the shelf.

Gently hers sought it and lay in it, and there was light in her face, for she believed.

And he, in his suffering within, was moved; as a man is, who, being in his life but a poor knave, plays bright truth and splendid passion on a stage, and the contrast that is between being and seeming, in his heart, makes him play greatness with a strong will, born of certain despair.
"I am glad," said Veronica, softly, and she looked down, while her hand still lingered in his, and he went on.
"It is not easy for a man like me to believe that he has all the world in his grasp--in the hold of his heart, to be his as long as he lives.
But you are making me believe it now--all that I did not dare to think of as even most dimly possible in my lonely life--that is why I thank you, that is why I bless you, and adore you, and love you as I do, as I can never make you guess, Veronica, as I scarcely hope you dream that a man may love a woman.

That is why I would die for you, Veronica, if God willed that I might!" The great words lacked no outward sign of living truth.

His hand burned hers, and closed upon it, pressure for word, to the end, in the terrible play of acted earnestness.