A man is not necessarily in love with the woman whose form haunts him.

So said Faber to himself; and I can not yet tell whether he was in love with her or not.

I do not know where the individuality of love commences--when love begins to be love.

He must have been a good way toward that point, however, to have thus betaken himself to denial.

He was the more interested to prove himself free, that he feared, almost believed, there was a lover concerned, and that was the reason she hated him so severely for what he had done.
He had long come to the conclusion that circumstances had straitened themselves around her.