“What dark thoughts! Do not torment yourself with dreams, Lucia. The reality is that I love you; ’tis a fair reality.”
“We are evil-doers.”
“Lucia, you are striving to poison this hour of happiness.”
“And what man are you, if you cannot bear sorrow? What cowardice is this! Is all your strength in your muscles? I have loved you because I believed in your strength.”
“I am weak in your hands. Your voice alone can either sadden or revive me. You can give me strength or deprive me of it. Do not abuse your power.”
They were on the verge of a sentimental wrangle, whither she had been leading him since the beginning of the drive.
“Love is no merry prank, Andrea; remember, love is a tragedy.”
“Do not look at me like that, Lucia. Smile on me as you did before; we were so happy, just now.”
“We cannot always be happy. Happiness is sin, happiness is dearly bought....” sententiously.
He turned his face away, profoundly saddened. He no longer goaded his horse, and Tetillo had subsided into a slow trot. Turning, Lucia beheld the victoria approaching. “On, on, Andrea,” she said; “faster, faster!” The little trap flew like an arrow. She passed one arm through the arm of the driver, and with head erect, and hair blown about by the breeze, she gave herself up to the pleasure of the race.