“I am not a man who marries.”
He plainly stated the relations that the woman whom he had distinguished by the honours of selection must hold toward him.
Emilia's cheeks did not redden; but, without any notion of shame at the words she listened to, she felt herself falling lower and lower the more her spirit clung to Mr. Pericles: yet he alone was her visible personification of hope, and she could not turn from him. If he cast her off, it seemed to her that her voice was condemned. She stood there still, and the cold-eyed Greek formed his opinion.
He was evidently undecided as regards his own course of proceeding, for his chin was pressed by thumb and forefinger hard into his throat, while his eyebrows were wrinkled up to their highest elevation. From this attitude, expressive of the accurate balancing of the claims of an internal debate, he emerged into the posture of a cock crowing, and Emilia heard again his bitter mimicry of her miserable broken tones, followed by, “Ha! dam! Basta! basta!”
“Sit here,” cried Mr. Pericles. He had thrown himself into a chair, and pointed to his knee.
Emilia remained where she was standing.
He caught at her hand, but she plucked that from him. Mr. Pericles rose, sounding a cynical “Hein!”
“Don't touch me,” said Emilia.
Nothing exasperates certain natures so much as the effort of the visibly weak to intimidate them.
“I shall not touch you?” Mr. Pericles sneered. “Zen, why are you here?”