R. D. Blackmore,
Frida; or, the lover's leap: a legend of the West Country
“ Little dainty glance, and flushing, and the fear to look too much, and the stealthy joy of feeling that there must be something meant, yet the terror of believing anything in earnest and the hope that, after all, there may be nought to come of it; and when this hope seems over true, the hollow of the heart behind it, and the longing to be at home with anyone to love oneself—time is wasted in recounting this that always must be. Enough that Frida loved this gallant from the depths of her pure heart, while he admired and loved her to the best of his ability. ”
