He, at least, was a little unlike all those other people, beginning with her own mother, who think of self first, comfort second, and of others once a month or so, in the most favourable cases.

Yet she wondered a little about his past life, and whether he had ever spoken to any woman with that ringing passion she had heard in Ruggiero's voice, with that flashing look she had seen in the sailor's bright blue eyes.
It would be good to be spoken to like that.

It would be good to see the colour in a man's face change, and come and go, red and white like life and death.

It would be supremely good to be loved once, madly, passionately, with body, heart and soul, to the very breaking of all three--to be held in strong arms, to be kissed half to death.
She stopped, conscious that her mother would certainly not approve such thoughts, and well aware in her girlish heart that she did not approve them in herself.

And then she smiled faintly.