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beautiful books, and gazed at illuminated sketches of enamoured people, who had suffered and perished for the sake of sacred love; these memories now arose before their eyes, and up sprang many fragments of poetry which they had once read, in which love was attired in a gown of tuneful harmony and sweet longing.
“Do you not remember what poem it is from?” asked Niemoviceki, after having recited part of a poem.
“There, again, she is near me, she whom I love so, from whom I have hidden, without saying one word; the whole of my tenderness, all my longing, and all my love.”
“No, I do not know,” answered Tenaida, and repeated musingly: “All longing, and all tenderness, and my love.”
“Yes, my love”—involuntarily like an echo, said Niemoviecki.
