"No, I never can, Anna. I shall always prefer duty to happiness."
"Poor, weak creature," she murmured with immense scorn.
He lifted his eyes towards heaven, as if seeking strength to endure his martyrdom.
"So," Anna went on, slowly, "if we were to live together, you would be unhappy?"
"We should both be unhappy, and the sight of your unhappiness, of which I should be the cause, would kill me."
"Well, then?"
"It's for you to say what you wish."
The cruel, the terrible reality was clear to her; there was only one thing to be said, and that was so unexpectedly dreadful that she hesitated to say it. The truth was so horrible, she could not bear to give it shape in speech. She looked at him—at this man who, to save her, inflicted such inexpressible pain upon her. And he understood that Anna could not pronounce the last words. He himself, in spite of his great courage, could not speak them, those last words, for he loved the girl wildly. The terrible truth appalled them both.
She got up stiffly and went to the window and leaned her forehead against the glass, looking out over the country and down the lane that led to the little station. Twice before that day she had looked at the same silent landscape; but in the morning, when she was alone, waiting, thrilling with hope, and again, only an hour ago, leaning on Giustino's arm, she had possessed entire the priceless treasure of a great love. Now, now all was over; nevermore, nevermore would she know the delight of love: all was over, all, all.