I was checked, but not beaten.

My madness, as she called it (as must not I also call it ?), was still in me, hot and surging.

Hope was yet alive, for she had shown me tenderness, and once it had seemed as though a passing shadow of remorse had shot across her brightness.

Putting out my hands, I took both of hers again, and so looked up in her face, dumbly beseeching her; a smile quivered on her lips as she shook her head at me.
"Heaven keeps you for better things," she said.
"I'd be the judge of them myself," I cried, and I sought to carry her hands to my lips.
"Let me go," she said; "Simon, you must let me go.

Nay, you must.