He knew now that he loved her -- Isabel Temple , dead for eighty years . This was love -- this searing , torturing , intolerably sweet thing -- this possession of body and soul and spirit . The poets had sung but weakly of it . He could tell them better if he could find words . Could other men have loved at all -- could any man love those blowzy , common girls of earth ? It seemed impossible -- absurd . There was only one thing that could be loved -- that white spirit . No wonder his uncle had died . He , Roger Temple , would soon die too . That would be well . Only the dead could woo Isabel . Meanwhile he revelled in his torment and his happiness -- so madly commingled that he never knew whether he was in heaven or hell . It was beautiful -- and dreadful -- and wonderful -- and exquisite -- oh , so exquisite . Mortal love could never be so exquisite . He had never lived before -- now he lived in every fibre of his being . He was glad Aunt Catherine did not worry him with questions . He had feared she would . But she never asked any questions now and she was afraid of Roger , as she had been afraid of his uncle . She dared not ask questions . It was a thing that must not be tampered with .
Who XXXXX what she might hear if she asked him questions ?
ask asked being die feared knew loved revelled sung tell