She turned on me sharply for the first time.
"You can see for yourself, sir, that I am in great distress.

I appeal to you, as a gentleman, to spare me." If you still doubt whether I was really in love, let the facts speak for themselves.

I hung my head, and let her go.
When I returned alone to the picture-gallery--when I remembered that I had not even had the wit to improve my opportunity by discovering her name and address--I did really and seriously ask myself if these were the first symptoms of softening of the brain.

I got up, and sat down again.

I, the most audacious man of my age in London, had behaved like a bashful boy! Once more I had lost her--and this time, also, I had nobody but myself to blame for it.
These melancholy meditations were interrupted by the appearance of my friend, the artist, in the picture-gallery.