Sit down, and there will be no mighty wonder in your music-master's leaning idly against a pedestal and speaking with you, remembering all that has happened, and our shares in it.

Sit down, my beloved.' She would have gone once more--was all but gone--and once more his face, darkly threatening what would follow if she went, has stopped her.
Looking at him with the expression of the instant frozen on her face, she sits down on the seat again.
'Rosa, even when my dear boy was affianced to you, I loved you madly; even when I thought his happiness in having you for his wife was certain, I loved you madly; even when I strove to make him more ardently devoted to you, I loved you madly; even when he gave me the picture of your lovely face so carelessly traduced by him, which I feigned to hang always in my sight for his sake, but worshipped in torment for years, I loved you madly; in the distasteful work of the day, in the wakeful misery of the night, girded by sordid realities, or wandering through Paradises and Hells of visions into which I rushed, carrying your image in my arms, I loved you madly.' If anything could make his words more hideous to her than they are in themselves, it would be the contrast between the violence of his look and delivery, and the composure of his assumed attitude.
'I endured it all in silence.

So long as you were his, or so long as I supposed you to be his, I hid my secret loyally.

Did I not ?' This lie, so gross, while the mere words in which it is told are so true, is more than Rosa can endure.

She answers with kindling indignation: 'You were as false throughout, sir, as you are now.