[For all the warmth in which he swaddles her, from the circle made of his sturdy arms around her waist to the hearth of his chest in which she buries her face, from the cocoon of blankets to the wreathe of his breath atop the crown of her head, it seems that still he cannot shield her from the insecurities which blow in unbidden like a cold draft. When he speaks, his voice betrays some grain of impatience or incredulity that is not wholly for her, and yet not wholly without roots in her self-abasement. Vanity is far from a trait to be admired in a woman, in whose bosoms belongs humility - yet Olivia seems to bear more than her share of such modesty.]

What is this you are saying? If ever a woman has had more gentle a heart than you, I've not heard rumor of her. Always you care more for the contentment of others than for your own, and always you worry after their cares. Lay not such insults upon yourself therefore.

[His hands wander tirelessly over her back, squeezing her sides and brushing over her bottom in attempts to dispel the fog that seems to shroud her mood.]