Her instinct told her easily enough that San
Miniato was at that very moment telling her mother all that had taken
place, and she bitterly resented the thought. It would surely have been
enough, if he had waited until the following day and then formally asked
her hand of the Marchesa. It would have been better, more natural in
every way, just now when they had gone up to the table, if he had said
simply that they loved one another and had asked her mother's blessing.
Anything rather than to feel that he was coolly describing the details
of the first love scene in her life--the thousandth, perhaps, in his
own.
After all, did she love him? Did he really love her? His passionate
manner when he had seized her hand had moved her strangely, and she had
listened with a sort of girlish wonder to his declarations of devotion
afterwards. But now, in the, calm moonlight and quite alone, she could
hear Ruggiero's deep strong voice in her ears, and the few manly words
he had uttered. There was not much in them in the way of eloquence--a
sailor's picturesque phrase--she had heard something like it before. But
there had been strength, and the power to do, and the will to act in
every intonation of his speech.
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