The beautiful eyes dropped from his.

She drew back ever so little, but another keen, sharp glance told him she was not angry; only shy and timid.
"You are so good to me," he continued, with passionate eagerness, "that I am not afraid to tell you.

I must go; life here is torture to me; it is torture to see you, to hear you speak, to worship you with a heart full of fire, and yet to know that the sun is not farther from me than you, to know that if I laid my life at your feet you would only laugh at me and think me mad.

It is torture so great that exile and death seem preferable." He saw her lips quiver, and her eyes, half raised, had in them no angry light.
"You are a great lady," he said, "rich, noble, powerful.

I am a poor artist.