Veronica had felt herself mortally insulted by Taquisara's manner, much more than by his words, though they had been offensive enough.

Her impression of the man was completely changed, in a moment, and she hoped that she might never see him again, so long as she lived.

It had been one thing to praise Gianluca to her, and to press his suit for him; it was quite another to lie in wait for her, as it were, at the end of a drawing-room and to reproach her brutally and angrily with wishing to break Gianluca's heart.

As she thought of his eyes, and his face, and his low voice, she grew pale with anger herself, at the mere memory of his insolence.
It did not strike her that there could be any truth in his accusation.
Gianluca was old enough to take care of himself.

Was Taquisara his nurse, his keeper, his doctor?
Gianluca was not making love to her in his letters, nor was she, in hers, encouraging him to do so.