I would that you were my own. I like you very much, I haven’t known you enough to love you, no matter how worthy you are of love. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. . Only I do not care to write about anything else. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. Moreover, atrociously and inexorably, he allowed it to appear ever and again in horrible gleams that he suspected there was some man in the case.
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