I believe that, little girl; I believe that, even while your lips deny its truth.

It is the instinct of love which teaches me, for I love you.

I may not know your name, the story of your life, who or what you are, but I love you, Beth Norvell, with the life-love of a man.

What is it, then, between us?
What is it?
God help me! I could battle against realities, but not against ghosts.

Do you suppose I cannot forgive, cannot excuse, cannot blot out a past mistake?
Do you imagine my love so poor a thing as that?
Do not wrong me so.