She thought of him as an immortal youth; his face was the same to her as when she had first seen it.
When it came before a subtler vision than her bodily one, there in the darkness and loneliness of this last Sunday night, it wore the beauty and innocent freshness of a child.

If Richard Alger could have seen his own face as the woman who loved him saw it, he could never have doubted his own immortality.
"There he came, an' the stone was up, an' he had to go away," moaned Sylvia, catching her breath softly.

Many a time she had pitied Richard because he had not the little womanly care which men need; she had worried lest his stockings were not darned, and his food not properly cooked; but to-night she had another and strange anxiety.
She worried lest she herself had hurt him and sent him home with a heavy heart.
Sylvia had gone about for the last few days with her delicate face as irresponsibly calm as a sweet-pea; nobody had dreamed of the turmoil in her heart.

On the Wednesday night before she had nearly reached the climax of her wishes.

Richard had come, departing from his usual custom--he had never called except on Sunday before--and remained later.