It now occurred to him that she had always been fully dressed. She had not at first the power for concealment. The bliss had lasted one hundred and forty years, far more than an entire mortal lifetime. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me.
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