His chair touched mine; his hand, quietly advanced, turned me towards him.

“Do you know Marie Justine?” said he again.

The name re-pronounced by his lips overcame me unaccountably. It did not prostrate⁠—no, it stirred me up, running with haste and heat through my veins⁠—recalling an hour of quick pain, many days and nights of heartsickness. Near me as he now sat, strongly and closely as he had long twined his life in mine⁠—far as had progressed, and near as was achieved our minds’ and affections’ assimilation⁠—the very suggestion of interference, of heart-separation, could be heard only with a fermenting excitement, an impetuous throe, a disdainful resolve, an ire, a resistance of which no human eye or cheek could hide the flame, nor any truth-accustomed human tongue curb the cry.

“I want to tell you something,” I said: “I want to tell you all.”

“Speak, Lucy; come near; speak. Who prizes you, if I do not? Who is your friend, if not Emanuel? Speak!”