"I was clinging to all that had been and, in an ideal world, all that we had hoped for. He, he wanted out."

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He could not forget the touch of her arms around his neck, impatiently felt as it had been at the time; but now the recollection of her clinging defence of him, seemed to thrill him through and through,—to melt away every resolution, all power of self-control, as if it were wax before a fire.

— Elizabeth Gaskell