“Be careful. Michael is always a prelude to a temper. Have one of these,” offering a nut.
She struck it rudely from his hand.
“Sometimes I am tempted to put my two hands around that exquisite neck of yours.”
“Try it.”
“No, I do not believe it would be wise. But if ever I find out that you have lied to me, that you loved the fellow and married me out of spite....” He completed the sentence by suggestively crunching a nut.
The sullen expression on her face gave place to a smile. “I should like to see you in a rage.”
“No, my heart; you would like nothing of the sort. I understand you better than you know; that accounts for my patience. You are Italian. You are caprice and mood. I come from a cold land. If ever I do get angry, run, run as fast as ever you can.”
Flora was not, among other things, frivolous or light-headed. There was an earthquake hidden somewhere in this quiet docile man, and the innate deviltry of the woman was always trying to dig down to it. But she never deceived herself. Some day this earthquake would open up and devour her.
“I hate him. He snubbed me. I have told you that a thousand times.”
He laughed and rattled the nuts in his hat.