I am not.

It is so great and pure." "You need not make yourself unhappy on that point--your poor return for his love, my dear," said Lyndall.

"A man's love is a fire of olive-wood.
It leaps higher every moment; it roars, it blazes, it shoots out red flames; it threatens to wrap you round and devour you--you who stand by like an icicle in the glow of its fierce warmth.

You are self-reproached at your own chilliness and want of reciprocity.

The next day, when you go to warm your hands a little, you find a few ashes! 'Tis a long love and cool against a short love and hot; men, at all events, have nothing to complain of." "You speak so because you do not know men," said Em, instantly assuming the dignity of superior knowledge so universally affected by affianced and married women in discussing man's nature with their uncontracted sisters.
"You will know them too some day, and then you will think differently," said Em, with the condescending magnanimity which superior knowledge can always afford to show to ignorance.
Lyndall's little lip quivered in a manner indicative of intense amusement.