So there it is, quite clear and simple.

I think I can make you happy; will you make me happy ?' It was exquisite, the trust, the truth, the quiet gravity, and yet there was pain in the exquisiteness.

She could not look at it yet distinctly for it seemed part of the beauty.

It was rarer, more dignified, this wooing, than commonplace protestations of devotion.

It was a large and beautiful life he opened to her and he needed her to make it real.