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I]

Did you think of me last night?

[Comes nearer.] I think of you always—as something beautiful and distant—the moon or some deep music.

[Smiling.] And last night which was I?

I was awake half the night. I could hear your voice. I could see your face in the dark. Your eyes I want to speak to you. Will you listen to me? May I speak?

[Sitting down.] You may.

[Sitting beside her.] Are you annoyed with me?

No.

I thought you were. You put away my poor flowers so quickly.

[Takes them from the table and holds them close to her face.] Is this what you wish me to do with them?

[Watching her.] Your face is a flower too—but more beautiful. A wild flower blowing in a hedge. [Moving his chair closer to her.] Why are you smiling? At my words?