“And you are foolish enough to think that I fear you?” he cried with biting sarcasm.
“I think nothing, caro,” she answered in a voice of the same intense disdain. “The truth is quite obvious. We fear each other.”
“I fear you?” And he laughed, as if the absurdity of the idea were humorous.
“Yes,” she said fiercely. “I am no longer powerless in your hands. You know well my character, signore—you know what kind of woman I am.”
“Yes, I do, unfortunately,” he answered. “And what, pray, does all this extraordinary exhibition of bitterness imply?” he asked.
“You force me to speak plainly,” she said, her eyes flashing angrily. “Well, then, reflect upon the strange death of Vittorina, and bear in mind by whom was her death so ingeniously compassed.”
He sprang towards her suddenly in a fierce ebullition of indignation, his hand uplifted as if he intended to strike her.
“Enough! Curse you!” he muttered.
“Take care,” she said calmly, without stirring from her seat. “If you touch me, it is at your own peril.”
“Threats?”