She languishes. Though she is reluctant to admit it, her hesitation speaks volumes, her eventual response, cryptic and evasive, speaks volumes more:
"What is romance anyway?"
"Who can tell the dancer from the dance?" is my reply, hollowly jocund. In sad eyes that meet tired ones, there is a mutual recognition: I languish because you languish. And languishing is the sine qua non of romance. Which thus shows itself the devil's most subtly cursed gift.
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