'No; you never loved me, and you do not love me now!' Andrea burst out
at last, pulling Elena's hands from his temples and drawing away from
her, for he was sensible of the fire that was kindling in his veins
under the mere gaze of those eyes, and his regret at having lost
possession of this fairest of women grew more bitter and poignant than
before. 'No, you never loved me. You had the heart to strike your love
dead at a blow--treacherously almost--just when it had reached its
supremest height. You ran away, you deserted me, left me alone in my
bewilderment, my misery, while I was still blinded by your promises. You
never loved me--neither then nor now. And now, after such a long
absence, so full of mystery, so silent and inexorable, after I have
wasted the bloom of my life in cherishing a wound that was dear to me
because your hand had dealt it--after so much joy and so much pain, you
return to this room, in which every object is replete for us with living
memories, and you say to me calmly--"I am yours no
longer--good-bye."--Oh no--you do not love me.'
'Oh, you are ungrateful!' she cried, deeply wounded by the young man's
incensed tone. 'What do you know of all that has occurred, or of what I
have had to go through?--What do you know?'
'I know nothing, and what is more, I do not want to,' Andrea retorted
stubbornly, enveloping her in a darkling look in which burned the fever
of his desire.
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