seen that she had been weeping. As she sat there shrouded in her black cloak, she was wistful, appealing, but his nature refused his sympathy any open expression.
Byron, how can you be so cruel?
Then you've come here to pity me! Now he was sneering.
I've come because I love you. I couldn't help coming. Oh, she sobbed, can't you pity me?
I suppose Olive has told you I've been thrown over. I suppose you've come here to gloat.
She looked at him in bewilderment. Do you love her so much? she asked.
Love her! I hate her!
Then it is true: you do love her. She spoke with resignation.
How pathetic she was, how sweet. His only desire was to embrace her, to freely confess his folly, but his perverse pride strangled his desire.
Perhaps I do. What business is that of yours?
This speech actually hurt him more than anything that Lasca had said to him.
Forget about me, he cried passionately. You've come here to look me over. Well, enjoy yourself. I'm a failure, a failure in everything. Nobody has any use for me. Lasca has thrown me out. I'm living here like a swine. You ought to be happy!
Byron, how can you say these terrible things? You're not yourself. Don't you understand that I love you? she pleaded. I came here because I love
