She realised that if she had loved him the touch of his hand, the proximity of his face would have had significance for her, a significance that would have been intolerable unless there was something mutual and secret between them.

It had seemed so easy, in anticipation, to tell him that he must wait, so simple for him just--well, just to wait until she could make up her mind.

She believed, as she had told her brother, that she cared for Michael, or as she had told him that she wanted to--the two were to the girl's mind identical, though expressed to each in the only terms that were possible--but until she came face to face with the picture of the future, that to her wore the same outline and colour as the past, she had not known the impossibility of such a presentment.

The desire of the lover on Michael's part rendered unthinkable the sisterly attitude on hers.

That her instinct told her, but her reason revolted against it.
"Can't we go on as we were, Michael ?" she said.
He looked at her incredulously.
"Oh, no, of course not that," he said.
She moved a step towards him.
"I can't think of you in any other way," she said, as if making an appeal.
He stood absolutely unresponsive.