So she put her hands behind
her back, closed her eyes, and raised her chin. He kissed not only the
lovely mouth, but the eyes and cheeks and hair.
"Gretchen, you are as good and beautiful as an angel."
"What are angels like?"
"An angel is the most beautiful woman a poet can describe or imagine."
"Then there are no men angels?"
"Only Gabriel; at least I never heard of any other."
"Then I do not want to be an angel. I had rather be what I am. Besides,
angels do not have tempers; they do not long for things they should not
have; they have no sweethearts." She caught him roughly by the arms.
"Ah, if anything should happen to you, I should die! It seems as though
I had a hundred hearts and that they had all melted into one for love of
you. Do men love as women love? Is it everything and all things, or
only an incident? I would give up my soul to you if you asked for it."
"I ask only for your love, Gretchen; only that." And he pressed her
hands. "All men are rogues, more or less. There are so many currents and
eddies entering into a man's life. It is made up of a thousand variant
interests. No, man's love is never like a woman's. But remember this,
Gretchen, I loved you the best I knew how, as a man loves but once,
honorably as it was possible, purely and dearly.
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