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Sometimes I tremble, Anna, to think how near I came to passing through life without a single glimpse, a moment’s revelation of this greatest and most awful of mysteries, the mystery of primaeval nature. “For no other reason than you talk too much. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. Without a single ornament about her neck, or hair, wearing the plainest of black gowns, out of which her shoulders shone gleaming white, she was easily the most noticeable and the most distinguished-looking woman in the room. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. I wonder,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “whether you ever realize how young you are.
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