diminish into quite a different thing--

"'_La figlia della sua mente, l'amorosa idea._'"

His voice grew so faint that Linda could scarcely distinguish
articulate sounds. All that he said, without meaning for her,
stirred her heart. She was used to elder enigmas of speech; her
normal response was instinctively emotional, and nothing detracted
from the gravity of her attention.

"Not in pious men," he continued, more uncertain; "nor in seminaries
of virtue. They have their reward. But in men whose bitterness of
longing grew out of hideous fault. The distinction of beauty--not a
payment for prayers or chastity. The distinction of love ... above
chests of linen and a banker's talent and patents of nobility....
Divine need. Idiotic. But what else, what better, offers?"

He was, she saw, terribly sick. His hands were clenched and his
entire being strained and rigid, as though he were trying to do
something tremendously difficult. At last, with infinite pain, he
succeeded.

"I must get away," he articulated.

Linda was surprised at the effort necessary for this slight
accomplishment when he had said the most bewildering things with
complete ease. Well, the elevators were right in front of him. He
rose slowly, and, with Linda standing at his side, dug a sharp hand
into her shoulder. It hurt, but instinctively she bore it and,
moving forward, partly supported him. She pressed the bell that