It might be but a passing state after all.

What would the awakening be?
Would his forgetfulness of Beatrice and his coldness to herself return with the subsidence of his passion?
Far better that than to see him and hear him as he was now.
And yet there were moments now and then when he pronounced no name, when he recalled no memory of the past, when there was only the tenderness of love itself in his words, and then, as she listened, she could almost think it was for her.

It was bitter joy, unreal and fantastic, but it was a relief.

Had she loved him less, such a conflict between sense and senses would have been impossible even in imagination.

But she loved him greatly and the deep desire to be loved in turn was in her still, shaming her better thoughts, but sometimes ruling her in spite of herself and of the pain she suffered with each word self-applied.