You always thought me heartless, about my poor father even, and unloving, and--hateful, and----" "Not heartless; what have I done, Perpetua, that you should say that ?" "Nothing.

That is what I _detest_ about you.

If you said outright what you were thinking of me, I could bear it better." "But my thoughts of you.

They are----" He pauses.

What _are_ they?
What are his thoughts of her at all hours, all seasons?
"They are always kind," says he, lamely, in a low tone, looking at the carpet.