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Helston, England, September 1854 around midnight, her eyes finally took shape. The look in them was feline, half determined and provisional media with the whole problem. Yes, they were right, those eyes. Rising to her, elegant forehead, inches from the dark cascade of hair thin eyebrow. Miro paper at arm to monitor progress. It was hard, working without it before him, but then could not draw in his presence. Since he had arrived from London .From he had first seen there was always had to be careful to keep it at a distance. Every day she approached him, and every day was more difficult than before. Therefore, it was morning - for India to America, he neither knew nor cared. Wherever he finished, it would be easier to be here. He leaned over the drawing again, sighing as he used his thumb to perfect spot coal from his lower lip. This paper impostor, lifeless, was the only way to have her with him. Then, straightening leather chair in the library, he felt it. That feeling in your neck. Your mere proximity gave him the most peculiar, as the kind of heat sensation when a log breaks in the ash in a fire. He knew without turning around: she was there. He covered his likeness on paper tied on her lap, but could not avoid it. His eyes fell on the sofa upholstered in ivory and the whole room, where only hours before she had appeared suddenly, later than the rest of his party in a pink silk dress, to applaud the eldest daughter of his host after a fine return on the harpsichord. He glanced across the room, the window to the terrace, where the previous day had crept up to him, and a handful of white peonies wild in his hand.

I still thought that the attraction she felt toward him was innocent, that their frequent rendezvous in the gazebo was just ... happy coincidence. It was so naive! He would never say otherwise - must endure his secret. I stood there and back, the sketches left in the leather chair was given. And there she was, pressed against the ruby velvet curtain in her white gown. His black hair had fallen from its braid. The look on his face was the same as the one he had drawn so often. There was fire, rising in her cheeks. Was he mad? ¿Embarrassed? He longed to know, but could not afford to ask. "What are you doing here?" he could hear the growl in his voice, and regretted its sharpness, knowing she would never understand.

"" I ... I could not sleep, "she stammered, moving toward the fire in his chair," I saw the light in your room and then "- she paused, looking down at her hands -" your trunk outside the door. Are you going somewhere "" I was going to tell you - "he interrupted should not lie I never meant to let you know about their plans only make things worse I had let things go too far, hoping... , that this time would be different, she approached, and his gaze fell on his sketchbook. ¿"are drawing me?" his tone scared reminded that great was the difference in understanding. Even after all the time they had spent together you these past few weeks, she had not yet begun to glimpse the truth behind their attraction This was fine -.. Or at least it was better during the past several days, since he had been struggling to get away from her. The effort took so much of him as soon as he was alone, he had in his desire locked to draw it. He had filled his book with pages of her arched neck, her collarbone marble, the black abyss of her hair. Now, He looked back at the sketch, not ashamed to be caught surprised with drawing, but worse. A cold chill spread through his body when he made his discovery - exposing your feelings - going for it. He should have been more careful. It always started like this. He murmured, his back to her "warm with a spoonful of honey Milk". Then he added sadly, "this will help you sleep." "How do you know why, this is exactly what my mother accustomed to -?"

"I know," he said, turning to face her. The astonishment of his voice surprised her, but could not explain as he had. Or tell him how many times he had administered this same drink it in the past when the shadows came, as he had held her until she fell asleep. He felt his touch as if burned his shirt, his hand resting lightly on his shoulder, making him gasp. They had not yet been touched in this life, and the first contact always left breathless. "Answer me," she whispered. "Does it you leaving?" "Yes" "Then take me with you," she blurted. At the right time, saw her breath, wishing to withdraw his plea. He could see his emotions settle in her eyes: she would be impetuous, puzzled, and then embarrassed by her own daring. She always did this, and too often made the mistake of comfort at this time. "No" he whispered, remembering ... always remembering ... "Tomorrow I'm going. If you feel affection for me, do not say another word." "If I care about you," she repeated, almost as if talking to herself. "I ... I love you" "do not do" "I have to say. I love you, I am quite sure, and if you leave ..." "If I leave, save your life." He spoke slowly, trying to get a part of it can remember. Does that was there at all, buried somewhere? "Some things are more important than love. You do not understand, but you have to trust me."