He considered that I had behaved badly to you, and everybody, and I do not think that he weighed his words." "I am not angry.

Now that I think of it, what does it matter?
I cannot help things, and the truth will out." "Yes," he said, quite simply; "we love each other, so we may as well admit it before we part." "Yes," she echoed, without disturbance or surprise; "I know now--we love each other." These were the first intimate words that ever passed between them; this, their declaration, unusual even in the long history of the passions of men and women, and not the less so because neither of them seemed to think its fashion strange.
"It must always have been so," said Morris.
"Always," she answered, "from the beginning; from the time you saved my life and we were together in the boat and--perhaps, who can say ?--before.

I can see it now, only until they put light into our minds we did not understand.

I suppose that sooner or later we should have found it out, for having been brought together nothing could ever have really kept us asunder." "Nothing but death," he answered heavily.
"That is your old error, the error of a lack of faith," she replied, with one of her bright smiles.

"Death will unite us beyond the possibility of parting.