"What does it amount to Ralph? Only to this, that though you admire Annabella so much, and for qualities that I don't possess, you would still rather have me than her for your wife which merely proves that you don't think it necessary to love your wife: you are satisfied if she can keep your house and take care of your child. But I'm not cross; I'm only sorry; for," added she in a low, tremulous accent, withdrawing her hand from his arm, and bending her looks on the rug, "if you don't love me, you don't, and it can't be helped."
"Very true: but who told you I didn't? Did I say I loved Annabella?"
"You said you adored her."
"True, but adoration isn't love. I adore Annabella, but I don't love her; and I love thee Milicent, but I don't adore thee." In proof of his affection, he clutched a handful of her light brown ringlets and appeared to twist them unmercifully.
"Do you really, Ralph?" murmured she
