Suddenly we hear the deep underground reverberation that reveals the unsuspected depth of some abyss of thought or passion beneath us.
I wish the girl would go.

I don't like to look at her so much, and yet I cannot help it.

Always that same expression of something that I ought to know,--something that she was made to tell and I to hear,--lying there ready to fall off from her lips, ready to leap out of her eyes and make a saint of me, or a devil or a lunatic, or perhaps a prophet to tell the truth and be hated of men, or a poet whose words shall flash upon the dry stubble-field of worn-out thoughts and burn over an age of lies in an hour of passion.
It suddenly occurs to me that I may have put you on the wrong track.

The Great Secret that I refer to has nothing to do with the Three Words.

Set your mind at ease about that,--there are reasons I could give you which settle all that matter.