“I am not laughing, I am smiling.”
“Sometimes, Lucia, I am afraid of you.”
“Afraid of what?”
“I don’t know. I do not know you well. And you, you are so completely mistress of yourself. I am entirely yours; so much your slave, that I tremble.”
“Did not you say that you were ready for anything?”
“And I say it again.”
“’Tis well, keep your courage in readiness.”
She had grown serious again—a great furrow crossed her brow, her eyebrows were puckered, her eye sinister.
“Oh! do not say these things to me, do not be so austere; smile again, smile as before, I entreat you.”
“I cannot smile,” said Lucia, harshly.