'Then he perceived in dimmest fashion that possibly a chance had come to ripeness, withered, and fallen, within the late scoffing seconds of time. Enraged at his blindness, and careful, lest he had wrongly guessed, not to expose his regret (the man was a lover), he remarked, both truthfully and hypocritically: "I've always thought you were born to be a lady." (You had that ambition, young madam.)
She answered: "That's what I don't understand." (Your saying it, O my friend!)
"You will soon take to your new duties." (You have small objection to them even now.)
"Yes, or my life won't be worth much." (Know, that you are driving me to it.)
"And I wish you happiness, Rhoda." (You are madly imperilling the prospect thereof.)
To each of them the second meaning stood shadowy behind the utterances. And further:
"Thank you, Robert." (I shall have to thank you for the issue.)
"Now it's time to part." (Do you not see that there's a danger for me in remaining?)
"Good night." (Behold, I am submissive.)
"Good night, Rhoda." (You were the first to give the signal of parting.)
"Good night." (I am simply submissive.)
"Why not my name? Are you hurt with me?"
Rhoda choked. The indirectness of speech had been a shelter to her, permitting her to hint at more than she dared clothe in words.
Again the delicious dusky rose glowed beneath his eyes.
But he had put his hand out to her, and she had not taken it.
"What have I done to offend you? I really don't know, Rhoda."
"Nothing." The flower had died.'
from Rhoda Fleming by George Meredith (Chapter XLIII)
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