'There is nothing ridiculous, even from a husband, in a love that owns itself unhappy and that asks no more.
I built on sand; pardon me, I do not breathe a reproach--I built, I suppose, upon my own infirmities; but I put my heart in the building, and it still lies among the ruins.' 'How very poetical!' she said, with a little choking laugh, unknown relentings, unfamiliar softnesses, moving within her.

'What would you be at ?' she added, hardening her voice.
'I would be at this,' he answered; 'and hard it is to say.

I would be at this:--Seraphina, I am your husband after all, and a poor fool that loves you.

Understand,' he cried almost fiercely, 'I am no suppliant husband; what your love refuses I would scorn to receive from your pity.

I do not ask, I would not take it.