The tone was so cold and cruel, and the words carried so sharp a sting, that they cut Rosalie’s heart like some whip might have done.
She shook her head.
“I don’t understand the Serpent,” she said, rubbing her hands against the chair arm. “How, then, can I love it?”
“That implies that you do understand the Serpent, and therefore you are not disposed to love him.”
“You aspire to understand me better than I understand myself.”
“Oh, no! I take you at your own word. I asked you did you love the Serpent, and you said, ‘I don’t.’ Surely there was not much to understand in that.”
“Don’t let us quarrel,” pleaded Rosalie.
“Quarrel? Quarrel? Oh, no, certainly not. I had no intention of quarrelling with you. I remember your telling me the other day you had no particular affection for the god of Lucifram.”
“But do you love the Serpent?”
“Oh! I—I—I—”