Indeed, I cannot let you go." "And I am glad," she answered, with a little laugh, her hand caressing his brow.

"I do love the feel of your arms and your lips--beautiful son of Varro!" "I will not let you go until--until you have promised to be my bride.
Think, the term is only two years." "Be it one or many, I will be your bride," said she.

"And although you were never to return, yet would I always wait for you and think of this day." She drew herself away and sat thoughtful, her chin upon her hands.
"Now are you most beautiful," said he, "with that little touch of sorrow in your face.

It gives me high thoughts to look at you." While they were thus sitting a woman, well past middle age, came into their presence.

She stopped near the feet of Arria.