She looked up at him, her face glowing, her bosom beating--beating, every pulse in her tingling.
"You mean that you love me, and that--that you want-to marry me ?" she said; and then, with a fervent impulse, she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him again and again.
The directness of her question dumfounded him for the moment; but what she suggested (though it might be selfish in him to agree to it) would be the best thing that could happen to him.

So he lied to her, and said: "Yes, that's what I meant.

But, then, to tell you the sober truth, I'm as poor as a church mouse." He paused.

She looked up at him with a sudden fear in her face.
"You're not married ?" she asked, "you're not married ?" then, breaking off suddenly: "I don't care if you are, I don't! I love you--love you! Nobody would look after you as I would.

I don't; no, I don't care." She drew up closer and closer to him.
"No, I don't mean that I was married," he said.