Rose's inner life was to her something sacred, not to be lightly revealed.
At last, through occasional remarks and opinions, light began to shine through.

He had begun to understand her the Sunday he had followed her to Lucy Ayres's.

He had, also, more than begun to love her.

Horace Allen would not have loved her so soon had she been more visible as to her inner self.

Things on the surface rarely interested him very much.