She was sorry for him; it was worse for him to have this deflated love than for herself, who could never be properly mated.

He was restless, for ever urging forward and trying to find a way out.

He might do as he liked, and have what he liked of her.
"Nay," she said softly, "I am not bitter." She felt she could bear anything for him; she would suffer for him.

She put her hand on his knee as he leaned forward in his chair.

He took it and kissed it; but it hurt to do so.