All the vast contradictions, all the measureless inconsistency, all the enormous selfishness of which human hearts are capable, had met in hers as in a battle-ground, fighting each other, rending what they found of herself amongst them, sometimes uniting to throw their whole weight together against the deep-rooted passion, sometimes taking side with it to drive out every other rival.
It was shameful, base, despicable, and she knew it.

A moment ago she had longed to tear herself away, to silence him, to stop her ears, anything not to hear those words that cut like whips and stung like scorpions.
And now again she was listening for the next, eagerly, breathlessly, drunk with their sound and revelling almost in the unreality of the happiness they brought.

More and more she despised herself as the intervals between one pang of suffering and the next grew longer, and the illusion deeper and more like reality.
After all, it was he, and no other.

It was the man she loved who was pouring out his own love into her ears, and smoothing her hair and pressing the hand he held.

Had he not said it once, and more than once?
What matter where, what matter how, provided that he loved?
She had received the fulfilment of her wish.