"Do you think that if I loved you, as I have loved you--as I did once--I
should be so ready to give you up? Do you know me so little? Do you
think that I have no pride?" asked Matilde Macomer, holding him at arm's
length from her with her strong hands and throwing back her head, while
the lids half veiled her eyes, and her face grew paler still.
The words that were so strange, spoken by such a woman, fell from her
lips with force and earnest conviction, whether she truly believed that
they had meaning for her, or not. Then her voice changed and softened
again.
"But your friend--yes, always, as you must be mine--that and nothing
more. We have said good bye to all the rest--now go, for I would rather
be alone for a little while. Go, Bosio--please go!"
"As you will," he answered.
Then he kissed her hand and looked into her face for a moment, as though
expecting that she should speak again. But she only shook her head, and
her hand gave his no pressure. He kissed it again. There were tears in
his eyes when he left the room.
CHAPTER VII.
Love is not the privilege of the virtuous, nor the exclusive right of
the weak man and woman. The earth brings forth the good thing and the
bad thing with equal strength to grow great and multiply side by side,
and it is not the privilege of the good thing to live forever because it
is good, nor is it the condemnation of the bad to die before its time,
perishing in its own evil.
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