She sits in the same still attitude, but shrinking a little more.
“Then, to be told that you discontinued your study with me, was to be politely told that you abandoned it altogether?” he suggested.
“Yes,” says Rosa, with sudden spirit, “The politeness was my guardian’s, not mine. I told him that I was resolved to leave off, and that I was determined to stand by my resolution.”
“And you still are?”
“I still am, sir. And I beg not to be questioned any more about it. At all events, I will not answer any more; I have that in my power.”
She is so conscious of his looking at her with a gloating admiration of the touch of anger on her, and the fire and animation it brings with it, that even as her spirit rises, it falls again, and she struggles with a sense of shame, affront, and fear, much as she did that night at the piano.
“I will not question you any more, since you object to it so much; I will confess—”
“I do not wish to hear you, sir,” cries Rosa, rising.
This time he does touch her with his outstretched hand. In shrinking from it, she shrinks into her seat again.
“We must sometimes act in opposition to our wishes,” he tells her in a low voice. “You must do so now, or do more harm to others than you can ever set right.”