She turned and looked at Andrea, her scholar who had learnt her theories so well, whom she had taught to deny truth.
“Then,” said Lucia, gloomily, “as I shall be never able to resign myself to hiding my love, since I can no longer practise deceit, we had better part.”
“No; I cannot.”
“We had better part.”
“I cannot; I shall die without you.”
“What can I do? There is no other way out of it. Die! I, too, will die.”
She turned up her eyes to the roof of the carriage and crossed her arms, as if she were waiting for death.
“I have let you speak,” he said calmly, in a tone of decision, “because you would have your say. But I have a plan of my own, the best, the only one. Humdrum adultery, you will have none of it. Well, then, we will have brazen adultery, open scandal. We will leave Naples together....”
“No,” she cried, covering her face in horror.
“... we will leave together, never to return. We will begin our life anew, in London, Paris, Nice or Brittany, wheresoever you will. Naples shall be wiped out of it. Since it is ordained that I love you, that you love me, we will pay our debt to fate.”