Then suddenly, in front of all those windows, he folded her in his arms and pressed her to him, and kissed her unresisting face. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. Do you think that it makes for happiness to force oneself into the extravagant belief that love is the only thing in the world worth having, and to sacrifice for it independence, self-respect, one’s whole scheme of life. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. Wood. Wanting his coat, when he must have known that the pockets were empty! But the effort to talk had cost him something. “She has nothing to be afraid of,” he continued. ‘It must seem strange to you at first.
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