Every moment of that half hour was as distinct as the outline of trees and hills just before a storm, and yet it was still entirely dream-like.

He knew it had happened, for nothing but the happening of it would account now for the fact of himself; but, though there was nothing in the world so true, there was nothing so incredible.
Yet it was all as clean-cut in his mind as etched lines, and round each line sprang flowers and singing birds.

For a long space there was silence after they had sat down, and then she said, "I think I always loved you, Michael, only I didn't know it.

.

.