With other women he had not been able to touch their flesh without experiencing the desire to devour it, as though ravenous with an abominable hunger to butcher them. But this one, could he then love her, and not kill her?

He was deciding whether to cut her throat or love her forever.

How could I hurt her? She'd have to love me before I could do that.

Être aimé d'elle, ou mourir.

he might die for her, but living for her would be quite different.

he silently acknowledged he did love her and that he would not hesitate to give his own life to bring her safely back.

This is what love is, he thought. Doing what you don't want to do, because she needs it so much. And it isn't that bad. And it isn't that hard.

She wasn't in love but she would love him, if that would save her.

He did not care if she was heartless, vicious and vulgar, stupid and grasping, he loved her. He would rather have misery with one than happiness with the other.

He in a few minutes ravished this fair creature, or at least would have ravished her, if she had not, by a timely compliance, prevented him.

He is here, with her, out of love. *He cannot imagine her getting through this trial without him at her side.”

She had tried to love him.

She would love it. Just as he loved her. He paused for a second, his fingers touching the door handle. He was in love. The realisation came to him quite suddenly.

Love is letting him win even though you know you could slaughter him.