"I shall not stir until you do." Henry took the glass with nerveless fingers and gulped down the liquid as he was bid, but although she took the glass from him she did not get off her knees; indeed, when she had pushed it on to the tray near her, she came closer still and laid her cheek against his coat, taking his right hand and chafing it between her own to bring back some life into him, while she kept up a murmured flow of sweet sympathy--as one would talk to an unhappy child.
Henry was not actually listening to her, but the warmth and the great vibrations of love coming from her began to affect him unconsciously, so that he slipped his arm round her and drew her to his side.
"Henry," she whispered with a little gasp in her breath, "I would take all pain away from you, dear, if I could, but I can't do anything, only just pet and love you into feeling better.

After all, everything passes in time.

I thought I should never get over the death of my husband, Girolamo, and now I don't care a bit--in fact, I only care about you and want to make you less unhappy." The Princess thoroughly believed in La Rochefoucauld's maxim with the advice that people were more likely to take to a new passion when still agitated by the rests of the old one than if they were completely cured.
She intended, now that she was released from all honor to her friend, to do her very uttermost to draw Henry to herself, and thought it much wiser to begin to strike when the iron was hot.
Henry did not answer her; he merely pressed her hand, while he thought how un-English, her action was, and how very kind.

She was certainly the dearest woman he had ever met--beyond Sabine.
Moravia was not at all discouraged, but continued to rub his hands, first one and then the other, while he remained passive under her touch.
"Sabine is perfectly crushed with all this," she went on.

"I have just left her.