It would not be wonderful, would it?
Besides, in the old tales, that always happens--the lady who nurses the Christian knight and worships him and so forth." "I don't think anything of the sort; I am not so vain." "I know it, Senor, you are too good a man to be vain.

Well, I do all these things, not for love of you, or any one, but for hate--for hate.
Yes, for hate of Morella," and she clenched her little hand, hissing the words out between her teeth.
"I understand the feeling," said Peter.

"But--but what has he done to _you_ ?" "Do not ask me, Senor.

Enough that once I loved him--that accursed priest Henriques sold me into his power--oh! a long while ago, and he ruined me, making me what I am, and--I bore his child, and--and it is dead.

Oh! Mother of God, my boy is dead, and since then I have been an outcast and his slave--they have slaves here in Granada, Senor-- dependent on him for my bread, forced to do his bidding, forced to wait upon his other loves; I, who once was the sultana; I, of whom he has wearied.