There are two parts of me"-- yes, he had been moved to go on.

"One is made up of the history, the doings, the marriages, the crimes, the follies, the boundless betises of other people--especially of their infamous waste of money that might have come to me.

Those things are written--literally in rows of volumes, in libraries; are as public as they're abominable.
Everybody can get at them, and you've, both of you, wonderfully, looked them in the face.

But there's another part, very much smaller doubtless, which, such as it is, represents my single self, the unknown, unimportant, unimportant--unimportant save to YOU--personal quantity.
About this you've found out nothing." "Luckily, my dear," the girl had bravely said; "for what then would become, please, of the promised occupation of my future ?" The young man remembered even now how extraordinarily CLEAR--he couldn't call it anything else--she had looked, in her prettiness, as she had said it.

He also remembered what he had been moved to reply.