But she sprang away from him, pushing him from her, by putting her
flat hand against his forehead, with her face still turned towards
the back of the sofa, away from him.
"No, no, no!" she cried, violently; "it cannot be, not so--not so! I
cannot--I cannot!"
"Bianca," he cried, starting to his feet as if he had been stung;
"what does this mean? What am I to understand? What is it you wish?
You know my position. I tell you that there is no sacrifice that I
am not willing to make. I am rich; name what you would wish."
"Spare me--spare me, I deserve all; but spare me! I deserve to
suffer, but not at your band," she cried, in words interrupted by
her sobs.
"Spare you what, Bianca? In truth, I do not understand you," said
the Marchese, genuinely mystified.
"Do you not understand?" she said, turning round on the sofa, so as
to face him, and looking into his face with those great appealing
eyes suffused with tears; "do you not understand? Can you not
comprehend? A woman would understand, I think; but I suppose men
feel these things differently."
"Upon my honour, Bianca, I do not know what you mean. Every word I
have spoken to you has been spoken from the very depth of my heart.
I am ready to--"
"Hush, hush, Marchese! No more of that; I could not bear it," she
said, with a great sigh that seemed as if it would burst her bosom;
"it is very--very painful to me; but I must endeavour to bring your
heart to understand me,--it must be your heart, Lamber--your heart,
Signor Marchese; for one does not arrive at the understanding of
such things with the head.
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