And all that she could do of womanly dignity and high-bred decorum was to tuck her small feet under her chair, in the desperate attempt to lengthen her short skirt, and beg him not to look at her.
"I have had to change dresses with Faquita, because we were watched," she said, leaning forward in her chair and drawing the striped shawl around her shoulders.

"I have had to steal out of my mother's house and through the fields, as if I was a gypsy.

If I only were a gypsy, Harry, and not--" "And not the proudest heiress in the land," he interrupted, with something of his old bitterness.

"True, I had forgot." "But I never reminded you of it," she said, lifting her eyes to his.
"I did not remind you of it on that day--in--in--in the conservatory, nor at the time you first spoke of--of--love to me--nor from the time I first consented to meet you here.

It is YOU, Harry, who have spoken of the difference of our condition, YOU who have talked of my wealth, my family, my position--until I would gladly have changed places with Faquita as I have garments, if I had thought it would make you happier." "Forgive me, darling!" he said, dropping on one knee before her and bending over the cold little hand he had taken, until his dark head almost rested in her lap.