"Do you mean to tell me that--that--Why, you can't have the shamelessness to care for the man without--until--" She broke in upon his burst of indignation with a low, clear laugh, and there was no shame in her voice or eyes, as she said: "Would it be so shameful if I have?
My dear father, you and I should differ on that point.

We are told that we are made for love and to be loved, that it is our proper and natural destiny.

Why, then, should we be ashamed of it.

None of us are in reality; we only pretend to be.

It is part of the world's system of hypocrisy to assume an incapacity for loving a man until he has asked you; to pretend an utter indifference until he has said the magic words, 'I love you.' As if love could wait, ever did wait, ever will! Anyway, mine did not! And I am no different to other women--only more candid." "By Heaven, you make me feel--mad!" he said, with suppressed anger.
"You tell me unblushingly, to my face, that you have fallen in love with the son of my old enemy, that you want to marry him--you ask me to help you, to--to forego my just revenge, to use my hold over him as a lever, to induce him, force him--Good God! have you no sense of right or wrong, are you utterly devoid of--of modesty, of womanly pride!" He glowered down upon her with flushed face and angry eyes; but she was quite unmoved by his outburst, and still met his gaze steadily, almost reflectingly.
"A fortnight ago I should have asked myself that question--and as angrily as you; but I can't now.