Margaret. Let me once!
[She plucks a china-aster and picks off the leaves one after another.]
Faust. What's that for? A bouquet?
Margaret. No, just for sport.
Faust. How?
Margaret. Go! you'll laugh at me; away! [She picks and murmurs to herself.]
Faust. What murmurest thou?
Margaret [half aloud]. He loves me—loves me not.
Faust. Sweet face! from heaven that look was caught!
Margaret [goes on]. Loves me—not—loves me—not— [picking off the last leaf with tender joy] He loves me!