“Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen,” counted he, joyfully.
“Miserable wretch!” said Oliva.
“Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two.”
“Coward!”
“Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five.”
“Infamous wretch!”
He got up. “And so, mademoiselle, you have been saving money when you kept me without necessaries. You let me go about in an old hat, darned stockings, and patched clothes, while you had all this money! Where does it come from! From the sale of my things?”
“Scoundrel!” murmured Oliva, looking at him with contempt.
“But I pardon your avarice,” continued he.
“You would have killed me just now,” said Oliva.