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The Lily of the Valley by Honoré de Balzac
page 86 of 331 (25%)

"No, I speak from pure happiness. Listen; give me a name by which no
one calls you; a name to be ours only, like the feeling which unites
us."

"That is much to ask," she said, "but I will show you that I am not
petty. Monsieur de Mortsauf calls me Blanche. One only person, the one
I have most loved, my dear aunt, called me Henriette. I will be
Henriette once more, to you."

I took her hand and kissed it. She left it in mine with the
trustfulness that makes a woman so far superior to men; a trustfulness
that shames us. She was leaning on the brick balustrade and gazing at
the river.

"Are you not unwise, my friend, to rush at a bound to the extremes of
friendship? You have drained the cup, offered in all sincerity, at a
draught. It is true that a real feeling is never piecemeal; it must be
whole, or it does not exist. Monsieur de Mortsauf," she added after a
short silence, "is above all things loyal and brave. Perhaps for my
sake you will forget what he said to you to-day; if he has forgotten
it to-morrow, I will myself tell him what occurred. Do not come to
Clochegourde for a few days; he will respect you more if you do not.
On Sunday, after church, he will go to you. I know him; he will wish
to undo the wrong he did, and he will like you all the better for
treating him as a man who is responsible for his words and actions."

"Five days without seeing you, without hearing your voice!"

"Do not put such warmth into your manner of speaking to me," she said.
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