"And of what woman?" he asked, suddenly becoming cold and imperious.
"Of all women. If you so much as touch a woman's hand, I am in despair."
"Of women in general?"
"Of women in general."
"Of no one in particular?"
She hesitated for a moment. "Of no one in particular."
"It's fancy, superstition," he said, pulling his moustache.
"It's love, love," she cried. "Ah, if you should love another, I would kill myself."
"I don't think you'll die a violent death," said he, laughing.