Through it vague hints of those splendid visions of her lonely childhood rose, shaping themselves in the starry darkness--the old mystery of dreams, the old, innocent desires, the old simplicity of clairvoyance wherein right was right and wrong, wrong--in all the conventional significance of right and wrong, in all the old-fashioned, undisturbed faith of childhood.
Drifting deliciously, her eyes sometimes meeting his, sometimes lost in the magic of her reverie, she lay there in her chair, her unresisting fingers locked in his.
Odd little thoughts came hovering into her reverie--thoughts that seemed distantly familiar, the direct, unconscious impulses of a child.

To feel was once more the only motive for expression; to think fearlessly was once more inherent; to desire was to demand--unlock her lips, naively, and ask for what she wished.
Under the spell, she turned her blue gaze on him, and her lips parted without a tremor: "What do you offer for what you ask?
And do you still ask it?
Is it me you are asking me for?
Because you love me?
And what do you give--love ?" "Weigh it with the--other," he said.
"I have--often--every moment since I have known you.

And what a winter!" Her voice was almost inaudible.

"What a winter--without you!" "That hell is ended for me, too.

Sylvia, I know what I ask.