She could see the cleft in his chin, the firm curve of his lips.

His eyes were turned from her.
She longed to say: "Hugh, the Bishop's first letter, lost on its way, hath reached my hands.

Already I know the true story of the vision." Yet instead she clung to his neck, crying: "Kiss me, Hugh! Kiss me!" She could not rob her man of his chance to be faithful.

Also, if he were going to fail her, it were better he should fail and she know it, than that she should forever have the torment of questioning: "Had I not spoken, would he have kept silence ?" Yet, while he was still hers, his honour untarnished, she longed for the touch of his lips.
"Kiss me," she whispered again, not knowing how ten-fold more hard she thus made it for him.
But loosing his arms from around her, he took her face between his hands, looking long into her eyes, with such a yearning of hunger, grief, and regret, that her heart stood still.

Then, just as, rendered dizzy by his nearness, she closed her eyes, she felt his lips upon her own.
For a moment she was conscious of nothing save that she was his.
Then her mind flew back to the last time they had stood, thus.