Every inch a man was he; never lived there one who was more a man; and what more than such a man could any maid desire?
"You are all that I would have you," she answered him, and in his mind he almost cursed her stubbornness, her want of reason.
"I am peevish and cross-grained," he informed her, "and I have grown old in ignorance of woman's ways.

Love has never come to me until now.

What manner of lover, think you, can I make ?" Her eyes were on the windows at his back.

The sunshine striking through them seemed to give her the reply she sought.
"To-morrow will be Saint Martin's Day," she told him; "yet see with a warmth the sun is shining." "A poor, make-believe Saint Martin's Summer," said he.

"I am fitly answered by your allegory." "Oh, not make-believe, not make-believe," she exclaimed.