ROXANE (dryly):
And that displeases me, almost as much
As ’twould displease me if you grew ill-favored.
CHRISTIAN:
But. . .
ROXANE:
Rally your poor eloquence that’s flown!
CHRISTIAN:
I. . .
ROXANE:
Yes, you love me, that I know. Adieu.
(She goes toward her house.)
CHRISTIAN:
Oh, go not yet! I’d tell you—
ROXANE (opening the door):
You adore me?
I’ve heard it very oft. No!—Go away!
CHRISTIAN:
But I would fain. . .
(She shuts the door in his face.)