“No, it is a sacrilege. I belong to another man; you to another woman.”
“Then what have we come here for?” he whined like a child. “Why did you give me your scarf last night? Why did you make me love you? What am I to do now? Must I die? I cannot live without you, without kissing you. I cannot live if you are not mine. You are beautiful, and I love you; it is not my fault.”
“It is fate,” she concluded, funereally crossing both hands under her head, and closing her eyes as if awaiting death.
“Lucia,” broke in Andrea, in the tones of a melancholy child.
“Well?”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Say it: 'I love you.’”
“I love you,” she repeated, monotonously.
“And how much do you love me, dear love?”