He had a little stone in his hand, and, as he spoke, he threw it gently towards the precipice, taking care not to send it over the edge.
“I think I would rather have anything on earth from people than their pity.”
“Suppose I were to pity you because I loved you?”
He picked up another stone and held it in his hand.
“I should hate it.”
He had lifted his hand for the throw, but he kept hold of the stone.
“What, pity that came straight out of love?”
“Any sort of pity.”
“You must be very proud—much prouder than I am then. If I were unhappy I should wish to have pity from you.”
“Perhaps you have never been really unhappy.”