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There were no scenes between them; Gabriel was not the man for scenes, he was deeply happy, humbly happy, not knowing his own worth, much more careful of her than any woman could have been, and gentle beyond speech. Even in those days she wondered how it would be with her if she were well, robust, whether all these little cares would not irritate her, whether this was indeed the lover for her. There was something donnish and Oxonian about him.

"I'm not sure I look upon you as a cathedral, whether it isn't more as a college."

When he could not follow her he remained silent.

"Think of me any way you want so long as you do think of me," he said, after a pause.

"I thought you would say that."

"Was it what you wanted me to say?"

"I only want to hear you say you adore me. You say it so nicely too."

"Do I? I don't know what I have done to deserve you."

"Just loved me," she said dreamily.

"Any man would do that."

"Not in the same way."

"As long as my way pleases you I am the most fortunate of men."

"Even if I never wrote another line?"

"As if it mattered which way you express yourself, by writing or simply living."