The beech trees stretched out their graceful twigs above them, the starlings talked to one another rather sadly, and far off through the stillness of the mist came the sound of the tide on the shore.

The curate was very pale and grave.

His tall frame trembled like a sick woman's as he stooped to give Violetta that kiss.

He took her hands in his for a moment, and then he clasped her in his arms, lifting her from the grass and embracing her in a passion of tenderness and love.

Then he put her from him.
'Violetta, it is amiable of you, and loyal, to excuse and defend your mother, but tell me--tell me, as you speak before God, that you do not think as you have spoken.