"I know it."
"And you—how do you love me?"
"You will never know how much, my poor Tullio."
As she uttered these words, she left the side-post and leaned her entire weight on me, with one of those indescribable motions in which she threw all the sweetness and abandon that the most feminine of creatures could show to a man.
"How beautiful you are! How beautiful you are!"
Beautiful, in fact, beautiful from languor, beautiful in soft suppleness, and, how shall I say? so fluid that she made me think of the possibility of drinking her down in small portions, to quench my thirst of her. On the pallor of her face the mass of loosened hair seemed on the point of spreading out like a wave. The eyelashes threw a shadow on her cheeks, agitating me more than a look would have done.
"Nor will you ever know how much. If I told you the mad thoughts that are born in me! My happiness is so great that it becomes anguish, it makes me wish to die."
"Die!" she repeated, very low, with a feeble smile. "Who knows, Tullio, if you will not see me die before long?"
"Oh! Juliana!"
She turned round to look at me, and added: