Talk to me as you will of your void idol.

Tell me of the darkness of his dwelling, and the sanctuary it affords to poor, tormented, specter-hunted humanity; but do not talk to me of love also, for where your idol is, love can not be." Faber made a gentle apology, and withdrew--abashed and hurt--vexed with himself, and annoyed with his failure.
The moment he was gone, she cast herself on the sofa with a choked scream, and sobbed, and ground her teeth, but shed no tear.

Life had long been poor, arid, vague; now there was not left even the luxury of grief! Where all was loss, no loss was worth a tear.
"It were good for me that I had never been born!" she cried.
But the doctor came again and again, and looked devotion, though he never spoke of love.

He avoided also for a time any further pressing of his opinions--talked of poetry, of science, of nature--all he said tinged with the same sad glow.

Then by degrees direct denial came up again, and Juliet scarcely attempted opposition.