Her love for Him resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. He's always, always in her mind: not as pleasure, any more than she is always a pleasure to herself, but as her own being.
He has ceased to express his fondness for her in words, and recoiled with angry suspicion from her girlish caresses, as if conscious there could be no gratification in lavishing such marks of affection on her
Had she not felt the start of his heart when her hands went around his neck, seen that despairing look on his face which was more open an avowal than any words could be?
He loved her.
She was sure of that now 💋