I had flung myself upon her, and twisted her wrists. She gave a humble moan of complaint, and swayed in my grasp.
I squeezed the soft, firm flesh of her arms, as if I were throttling two doves, and bending over her agonized eyes, I said:
“Well, tell me why?”
She looked me up and down in defiance, and then said:
“Well, what about it? You know perfectly well that Macbeth was my lover. Lerne gave you to understand that in my presence on the day of your arrival.”
“Is that Macbeth—that madman?”
Emma did not reply, but her astonishment informed me that I had made another mistake in showing my ignorance.
“Have I not the right to love him?” she went on. “Do you think you are going to prevent me?”
I shook her arms as if they were bell-ropes.
“Do you still love him?”