He told me that it had taken a weight off his mind." "How often does he come ?" Burton asked.
"He was here last Sunday week." "Last Sunday week! And you call him your lover!" "No, I have not called him that," she reminded him gently.

"He is not that sort of man.

Only I think that he is the person whom I shall marry--some day." "I am sure that you were beginning to like me," he insisted.
She turned and looked at him--at his pale, eager face with the hollow eyes, the tremulous mouth--a curiously negative and wholly indescribable figure, yet in some dim sense impressive through certain unspelt suggestions of latent force.

No one could have described him, in those days, though no one with perceptions could have failed to observe much that was unusual in his personality.
"It is true," she admitted.

"I do like you.