"Who is that man?" I exclaimed.
"I don't know," she faltered.
"You don't know? But you are trembling?"
"Am I?"
"I ask you who he is? How he dared to look at you like that?"
"Am I responsible for the way a loafer looks?"
"You are responsible for your agitation; I ask you to explain it!"
"And by what right, after all?"
"By what right? Wretched, false-hearted girl! Has our communion for hours given me no rights? Am I a Frenchman or a flounder? Answer; you are condemning me to tortures! Why did you tremble under that man's eyes?"
"I was afraid," she stammered.