"It is most unkind, it is horrible, it is cruel of you to press me in this way!" she sobbed, trying with both hot, trembling hands to push my arm away and to free herself from my clasp.
The sight of her tears hurt me, the pain stamped on the soft face, and the tumultuous rising and falling of her breast in those agonised sobs, reproached me, but the hurt and the reproach were dull. If she thought her tears would induce me to hesitate or to desist, she was wrong. They were to me simply a favourable sign of her weakness, and urged me to press my advantage. I felt instinctively that it would not do to fail now; having gone so far, I must go farther, and be successful. Probably I should be much sooner forgiven by Lucia herself. Nothing is less pardonable, either in love or war, than an unsuccessful attempt.
Her resistance was nothing but nervous folly and weakness, and I believed she herself would be glad to be forced to give it up. Besides, even if my reason had not told me all this, my own feelings would have been enough to make me relentless.
"You may cry," I thought, looking at her as she sobbed with her head strained away from me, "but before I go you shall speak."
"What is your decision?" I said.
"What am I to say?" she murmured, in a voice choked by tears.
"Promise me some fixed date."
"I can't—now—like this. I will tell you to-morrow."
"No; to-day. You have deferred it from week to week. You must tell me now."
Silence, broken only by the sound of tears.