I would like to see the man or woman to have denied him anything.

At times like these he was (I do not seek to disguise it) a frank lover, _Non omnia possumus omnes_; if any man think he must have been Galahad the Bloodless Knight because he had been singled out by the questing Rood, he knows little how high ventures foment rich blood.
Lancelot he never was, to love broadcast; but Tristram, rather, lover of one woman.

Hope, pride, knowledge of his force, ran tingling in him; perhaps he saw her fairer than any woman could have been; perhaps he saw her rosy through his sanguine eyes.

He clipped her in his arms in full hall that night in a way that made her rosy enough.

Not that she denied him: good heaven, who was she to do that?
There as he had her close upon his breast he kissed her a dozen times, and "Jehane, wilt thou fare with me to England ?" he asked her fondly, "or must I leave thee peaking here, my Countess of Anjou ?" 'She would have had her own answer ready to that, good soul, but that the leper gave her another.