The kiss without the glance?
The body without the soul?
The mortal thing without the undying thought?
Draw down the thick veil and hide the sight, lest devils sicken at it, and lest man should loathe himself for what man can be.
Truth or untruth, their love was real, hers as much as his.

She remembered only what her heart had been without it.

What her goal might be, now that it had come, she guessed even then, but she would not ask.
Was there never a martyr in old times, more human than the rest, who turned back, for love perhaps, if not for fear, and said that for love's sake life still was sweet, and brought a milk-white dove to Aphrodite's altar, or dropped a rose before Demeter's feet?
There must have been, for man is man, and woman, woman.

And if in the next month, or even the next year, or after many years, that youth or maid took heart to bear a Christian's death, was there then no forgiveness, no sign of holy cross upon the sandstone in the deep labyrinth of graves, no crown, no sainthood, and no reverent memory of his name or hers among those of men and women worthier, perhaps, but not more suffering?
No one can kill Self.

No one can be altogether another, save in the passing passion of a moment's acting.