He folded his arms around my waist and held me as in a vise.

Then suddenly leaning his head down upon my arms, he kissed my hands, my arms, my dress, with a moan of bitter anguish.
"Not mine," he murmured.

"Never mine but in my dreams.

O wretched dreams, that drive me mad.

Pauline, they will tell us that we must not dream--we must not weep, we must be stocks and stones.