Fine romance: damn you, Miss Twitterton!
ARGH! Though I hate to say it, this is all the more romantic for being witnessed, and then cut short. Or does that make me a pervert? From Busman's Honeymoon, Ch. XVI:
There was such a stillness in the room that Miss Twitterton thought it must be empty. She crept down softly, stair by stair, afraid lest Bunter should hear her. The door was ajar and she pushed it open inch by inch. The lamp had been moved, so that she found herself in darkness—but the room was not empty after all. On the far side, framed in the glowing circle of the lamplight, the two figures were bright and motionless as a picture—the dark woman in a dress like flame, with her arms locked about the man's bowed shoulders and his golden head in her lap. They were so quiet that even the great ruby on her left hand shone steadily without a twinkle.
Miss Twitterton, turned to stone, dared neither advance nor retreat.
"Dear." The word was no more than a whisper, spoken without a movement. "My heart's heart. My own dear lover and husband." The locked hands must have tightened their hold, for the red stone flashed sudden fire. "You are mine, you are mine, all mine."
The head came up at that and his voice caught the triumph and sent it back in a mounting wave:
"Yours. Such as I am, yours. With all my faults, all my follies, yours utterly and for ever. While this poor, passionate, mountebank body has hands to hold you and lips to say, I love you—"
"Oh!" cried Miss Twitterton, with a great strangling sob. "I can't bear it! I can't bear it!"