Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

She--yes, it was she herself--came gliding to the middle of the road, gazing up at him. “At last!” he heard her say. His instinct was to hide himself from the queen he had not died for. Yet he could not move. “Or,” she quavered, “are you a phantom sent to mock me? Speak!” “Good evening,” he said huskily. “I knew,” she murmured, “I knew the gods were not so cruel. Oh man of my need,” she cried, stretching out her arms to him, “oh heaven-sent, I see you only as a dark outline against the light of your room. But I know you. Your name is Noaks, isn’t it? Dobson is mine. I am your Warden’s grand-daughter. I am faint and foot-sore. I have ranged this desert city in search of--of YOU. Let me hear from your own lips that you love me. Tell me in your own words--” She broke off with a little scream, and did not stand with forefinger pointed at him, gazing, gasping. “Listen, Miss Dobson,” he stammered, writhing under what he took to be the lash of her irony. “Give me time to explain. You see me here--”