But, only what? How might I say it? Only that she held my head against her breast, when I was bewildered. That she warmed my foot with her breath, once. That she ground my pointed tooth with a silver thimble. That she brought me soup – clear soup – instead of an egg, and smiled to see me drink it. That her eye has a darker fleck of brown. That she thinks me good…
She blushed still harder. ‘I find that I am good at it…’ She bit her lip. She was still watching my face. 'Do you hate me for it?’ she said.
'Hate you!’ I said. 'When I have fifty proper reasons for hating you, already; and only-’
Only love you, I wanted to say. I didn’t say it, though. What can I tell you? If she could still be proud, then so, for now, could I… I didn’t need to say it, anyway: she could read the words in my face.
She began to shake. I supposed she was still afraid. Then I began to shake, too. I forgot to think of Gentleman, after that. I thought only of her. When her face grew wet with tears, I kissed them away.