But
after a while, in answer to an appealing look from Giovanni, she left
the room. Nina felt no surprise either at Giovanni's appeal or at her
aunt's response. She knew very well what he would say, and she had long
been trying to make up her mind what her answer should be. Yet no sooner
had the _portieres_ closed than an unaccountable dread took possession
of her, and she had an overwhelming desire to escape.
She knitted industriously, her head bent, her eyes intent upon her
needles. For a while Giovanni lay back against the pillows, idly
watching her progress; then he raised himself on his unbandaged elbow
and leaned forward. Even this exertion revealed his weakness: an
increasing pallor overspread his transparent features, and he spoke as
sick people do--with difficulty and as though out of breath:
"Mademoiselle, you know--what I have in my heart--to say----"
"Don't, ah--please----" Nina sprang up and put out her hand in protest.
But he paid no heed. "Donna Nina," he implored, "will you do me the
honor to be my wife? _Carissima mia_--" she heard his voice as though
from afar, as he fell back against the pillow--"I love you! Even a
portion of how much I love you would fill a life!" He took her hand as
she stood beside him, and pressed it to his lips.
She felt how thin his hand was, and how it trembled.
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