Your husband--I beg your pardon, the prince--would perhaps take a different view of the case.

It is a pretty story.

I will tell it to him unless I have your implicit obedience." Etta stood dry-lipped before him.

She tried to speak, but no words came from her lips.
De Chauxville looked at her with a quiet smile of triumph, and she knew that he loved her.

There is no defining love, nor telling when it merges into hatred.
"Thursday evening, before dinner," said De Chauxville.
And he left her standing on the hearth-rug, her lips moving and framing no words..