And since, spoiled here; as soft as swan’s down, now,
With words like honey melting from the comb,
But being crossed, vindictive, cruel, cold.
I fancy her between two rosy smiles,
Saying, “Poor fellow, in the Nertchinsk mines!”
She. You know her not.
Count Sergius Pavlovich, you said no mask
Could hide the soul, yet how you have mistaken
The soul these two months—and the face to-night. (She removes mask.)
He. You!—it was you.