"What;—your going?"
"Yes;—the change altogether."
She looked him in the face for a moment before she answered, with a peculiar smile in her eyes to which he was well used,—a smile half ludicrous and half pathetic,—having in it also a dash of sarcasm. "I can dare to tell the truth," she said, "which you can't. I can be honest and straightforward. Yes, it will make me unhappy. And you?"
"Do you think that I cannot be honest too,—at any rate to you? It does fret me. I do not like to think that I shall be without work."
"Yes;—Othello's occupation will be gone,—for awhile; for awhile." Then she came up to him and put both her hands on his breast. "But yet, Othello, I shall not be all unhappy."
"Where will be your contentment?"
"In you. It was making you ill. Rough people, whom the tenderness of your nature could not well endure, trod upon you, and worried you with their teeth and wounded you everywhere. I could have turned at them again with my teeth, and given them worry for worry;—but you could not. Now you will be saved from them, and so I shall not be discontented." All this she said looking up into his face, still with that smile which was half pathetic and half ludicrous.
"Then I will be contented too," he said as he kissed her.