He would not kiss her or take her hand--from choice--that was the main thing her woman's heart had grasped, the main thing, which cut her like a knife.
"You can count upon me," she said, so low he could hardly hear her; and then she raised her head proudly, and looked straight in front of her, but not at him, while she repeated more firmly: "I will do in every way what you wish--what your mother would have done.

I am no weakling, you know, and as you said, I am as proud as yourself." He dared not look at her, now the bargain was made, so he took a step towards the door, and then turned and said: "I thank you--I shall be grateful to you.

Whatever may occur, please believe that nothing that may look as if it was my wish to throw us together, as though we were really husband and wife, will be my fault; and you can count upon my making the thing as easy for you as I can--and when the mockery of the rejoicings are over--then we can discuss our future plans." And though Zara was longing to cry aloud in passionate pain, "I love you! I love you! Come back and beat me, if you will, only do not go coldly like that!" she spoke never a word.

The strange iron habit of her life held her, and he went sadly from the room.
And when he had gone, she could control herself no longer and, forgetful of coming maid and approaching dinner, she groveled on the white bearskin rug before the fire, and gave way to passionate tears--only to recollect in a moment the position of things.

Then she got up and shook with passion against fate, and civilization, and custom--against the whole of life.