“If,” said she, emphatically, “if I liked Dr. John till I was fit to die for liking him, that alone could not license me to be otherwise than dumb⁠—dumb as the grave⁠—dumb as you, Lucy Snowe⁠—you know it⁠—and you know you would despise me if I failed in self-control, and whined about some rickety liking that was all on my side.”

“It is true I little respect women or girls who are loquacious either in boasting the triumphs, or bemoaning the mortifications, of feelings. But as to you, Paulina, speak, for I earnestly wish to hear you. Tell me all it will give you pleasure or relief to tell; I ask no more.”

“Do you care for me, Lucy?”

“Yes, I do, Paulina.”