He knew her too well to see her from the distance that pity requires. He loved her because he admired her. For bearing without complaint the burden the queen put on her. For still being gentle and loving when she had ample reason to be bitter.

He wondered how it could have taken him so long to realize he cared for her, and he told her so, and she called him an idiot, and he declared that it was the finest thing that ever a man had been called.

He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise; dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink.

and he loved her suddenly because she loved him.

Odd things made him love her.

She did not understand what all that meant, but it was evidently something very near his heart, and so she said, "How splendid!"

He was full of love — for himself, first, and his prowess — such a fine power at his age. Then, he felt a degree of love for her —

He thought she was the most wonderful woman in the world. Of course he did—she agreed with him.

He loved her, he loved her, and until he'd loved her she had never minded being alone....

He held her as though she was a gift. Given to him in love. Something still and small. Unbearably precious.

How strange it was to think that he, who such a short time ago dared not believe in the happiness of her loving him, now felt unhappy because she loved him too much!

He was glad that he had expressed to her, however blunderingly, what he felt. He was glad that he had held her hand.

He had been a fool to imagine it, but he was glad he had been a fool. She had given him one grand dream.

He looked at her
Something
Turned cancerous
He was in love.