She longed to be told by him that he loved her. He had no objection to tell her so, but, without thinking much about it, felt it to be a bore. All that kind of thing was trash and twaddle. He desired her to accept him; and he would have wished, were it possible, that she should have gone to her father for his consent. There was something in the big eyes and heavy jaws of Mr Melmotte which he almost feared. ‘Do you really love me well enough?’ she whispered. ‘Of course I do. I’m bad at making pretty speeches, and all that, but you know I love you.’ ‘Do you?’ ‘By George, yes. I always liked you
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