reason why I shouldn't let myself love him too—except, of course, one's self-respect after all that had happened. But just for an instant I didn't think about that last part; and I was so surprised, and so happy—or so shocked and so unhappy (I couldn't be sure which; only, whatever the sensation was, it was very violent), that I was speechless.
Brown took advantage of that, and talked a great deal more. I tried to look away from him, but I simply couldn't. He held my eyes, and after he had told me whole chapters about his thoughts and feelings since the very first day of our meeting, it occurred to me that he was holding my hands too—both of them, I am not sure he hadn't been doing it for some time before I found out, but it was his kissing the hands which brought me to myself.
It seemed too extraordinary that Brown should be doing that—almost as if I were dreaming. And to be perfectly frank with myself, it was an exquisite dream; because such strange things can happen in dreams, and you don't seem to mind a bit. Luckily, he didn't know this; and I snatched my hands away, exclaiming: "Mr. Winston!"
"Don't call me that," he begged. "Call me Brown."
"But you are not Brown."
"I love you just as much as when I was Brown, and more. If you only knew what thousands of times I have longed to tell you, and the heavenly relief it is to do it at last!"
"You have no more right now. Less, even; for Brown seemed honest."
