“Run away with me, far away,” she whispered, looking at him with languorous eyes.
“Do not look at me like that, witch,” said Andrea, roughly.
“I love you.”
“And I, and I—you cannot know how I love you.”
“I do, though. Why don’t you write to me?”
“I have written to you, over and over again, and torn the letters up. Oh! Lucia mia, how beautiful you are, and how dear!”
Close to him, in her trim tight-fitting dress, with little crossed feet, with the tender look on her face, shaded by the brim of her hat, she was fascinating. She looked like an enamoured child, with her pink chin, her delicate cheeks, and wind-blown hair.
“I shall drop the reins and kiss you.”
“No; they are watching us.”
“Then why are you so dear? Why is my brain on fire?”