The air was beginning to grow chilly, but neither of them heeded the change.
"You think that I do not love you," said the Count again.

"You are mistaken, deeply mistaken, Vjera." The faint, soft colour rose in the poor girl's waxen cheeks, and there was an unaccustomed light in her weary blue eyes as they met his.
"I do not say," continued her companion, "that I love you as boys love at twenty.

I am past that.

I am not a young man any more, and I have had misfortunes such as would have broken the hearts of most men, and of the kind that do not dispose to great love-passion.

If my troubles had come to me through the love of a woman--it might have been otherwise.