"I never meant it so!" Beatrice exclaimed in low tones, and she repeated
the words again and again, pausing now and then and looking fixedly at
her mother.
"Dear child," said the Marchesa, "what does it matter? If it were not
such an exertion to talk, I am sure I could make you see what a good
match it is, and how glad you ought to be."
"Glad! Oh, mamma, you do not understand! The degradation of it!"
"The degradation? Where is there anything degrading in it?"
"I see it well enough! To give myself up body and soul to a man I do not
love! And for what? Because he has an old name, and I a new one, and I
can buy his name with my money. Oh, mother, it is too horrible! Too low!
Too vile!"
"My angel, you do not know what strong words you are using--"
"They are not half strong enough--I wish I could--"
But she stopped and began to walk up and down again, her sweet young
face pale and weary with pain, her fingers twisting each other
nervously. A long silence followed.
"It is of no use to talk about it, my child," said the Marchesa,
languidly taking up a novel from the table beside her. "The thing is
done.
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