It was all so fearfully true and possible.
"But do not say that you do not love me," he pleaded, in low tones, bending to her ear.
There was a moment's silence, and he thought he saw a convulsive movement of her throat--he guessed it rather than saw it.
"It is true!" she cried, with an effort, drawing her hands from him and turning her pale face fiercely.

"If I loved you still, do you think I would give you to Veronica Serra, or to any living woman?
Was that the way I loved you?
Was that how you loved me ?" "Ah no! But now--" She would not let him speak.
"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.