“It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes—and the scar of fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loving you too well for all this; and making too much of you.”
“I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my arm, and my cicatrised visage.”
“Did you? Don’t tell me so—lest I should say something disparaging to your judgment. Now, let me leave you an instant, to make a better fire, and have the hearth swept up. Can you tell when there is a good fire?”
“Yes; with the right eye I see a glow—a ruddy haze.”
“And you see the candles?”
“Very dimly—each is a luminous cloud.”
“Can you see me?”
“No, my fairy: but I am only too thankful to hear and feel you.”
“When do