Something of the exotic mystery of these things was diffused over the
drawing-room.
'And what do you suppose is going to become of me now?' asked Andrea.
She seemed lost in perplexing thought. There was a look of irresolution
on her face as if she were listening to two contending voices.
'I cannot describe to you,' she answered, passing her hand over her eyes
with a rapid gesture, 'I cannot describe to you the strange foreboding
that has weighed upon me for a long time past. I do not know what it is,
but I am _afraid_.'
Then, after a pause--'Oh, to think that you may be suffering, sick at
heart,--my poor darling--and that I can do nothing to ease your pain,
may not be with you in your hour of anguish--may not even know that you
have called me--_Mio Dio!_'
There was a quiver of tears in her breaking voice. Andrea hung his head
but did not speak.
'To think that my spirit will follow you always, always, and yet that it
may never, never mingle with yours, will never, never be understood by
you!--Alas, poor love!'
Her voice was full of tears and her mouth was drawn with pain.
Ah, do not desert me--do not desert me!' cried the young man, seizing
her two hands and half-kneeling at her feet, a prey to overwhelming
excitement--'I will never ask anything of you--I want nothing but your
pity. A little pity from you is more--far more--to me than passionate
love from any other woman--you know it.
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