Her name might be Tullia or Claudia!
And then once again the memory of Giovanni's high-bred charm, no less
than of his great estate, which she was now asked to share, seemed to
hold a spell of enchantment. His words, "_Carissima_, I love you," swept
through her memory with a thrill that the spoken words themselves had
failed to carry. She laid her cheek down on the dog's great head, her
mouth close to a pointed ear. "We _do_ love him, thou and I," she
whispered in Italian, "and we will stay here always--always."
She unclasped her arms from about the dog's neck and sat up straight,
determined to hurry back through the rooms, before the queer fear should
seize her anew. She would not wait to analyze her feelings again; she
would go straight to the sofa and say to Giovanni's ardent, appealing
eyes--his beautiful Italian eyes--"Yes."
But even as the resolve was shaped, there followed swift upon it an
overwhelming wave of doubt that made her clasp her hands to still the
turmoil within her breast. It was as if an inner voice repeated, clearly
and insistently, "You don't love him! You don't love him!"
The dog lifted one huge paw and put it on her knee, his head went up, he
pushed his cold nose against her cheek, and as she lifted her chin, to
escape his over-affectionate caress, her glance fell by chance on a
picture of Ruth and Naomi.
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