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"But why should night produce melancholy?" says Nicholas, dreamily. "It is but a reflection of the greater light, after all. What does Richter call it? 'The great shadow and profile of day.' It is our own morbid fancies that make us dread it." "Oh, go on; do," says Mr. Darling, in a second aside, who is by this time a brilliant purple from fear and indignation. When the old man has gone, Mona goes quietly up to her lover, and, laying her hand upon his arm,—a hand that seems by some miraculous means to have grown whiter of late,—says, gratefully,—.
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Conrad
"Ah! Then you refuse to answer me," says Mona, hastily, if somewhat wearily. The inference is full of saddest meaning. Even Geoffrey feels the tears rise unbidden to his eyes. Nolly pauses. Again she has grown silent, as though oppressed with thought; and he too is mute, but all his mind is crowded with glad anticipations of what the near future is to give him. He has no regrets, no fears. At length, struck by her persistent taciturnity, he says, "What is it, Mona?".
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