And you, Monsieur, are the grain of sand which stops all this, you and your pride.

Not even a woman's love--There, I have said it!--not even a woman's love--will move your sense of justice.

Go! leave me.

Since my love is nothing, since the sacrifice I make is useless, go; you are free!" The tears which came into her eyes this time were genuine; tears of chagrin, vexation, and of a third sensation which still remained a mystery to her.
To him, as she spoke, with her wonderful eyes flashing, a rich color suffusing her cheeks and throat and temples, the dim candle light breaking against the ruddy hair; honor or pride, whichever it was, was well worth the losing.

He was a man; it is only the pope who is said to be infallible.