"I am not falling in love," she rejoined.
"What did you mean, then, by looking at him as you did; by whispering
together; by letting him hold your hand when he left, and him looking at
you as though he'd eat you up--without sugar!"
"I said I was not falling in love," she persisted, quietly, but with
characteristic boldness. "I am in love."
"You are in love with him--with that interloper! Heaven of heavens, do
you speak the truth? Answer me, Zoe Barbille."
She bridled. "Certainly I will answer. Did you think I would let a man
look at me as he did, that I would look at a man as I looked at him, that
I would let him hold my hand as I did, if I did not love him? Have you
ever seen me do it before?"
Her voice was even and quiet--as though she had made up her mind on a
course, and meant to carry it through to the end.
"No, I never saw you look at a man like that, and everything is as you
say, but--" his voice suddenly became uneven and higher--pitched and a
little hoarse, "but he is English, he is an actor--only that; and he is a
Protestant.
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