"
Marietta looked across the garden thoughtfully, and suddenly a chilling
doubt fell upon her heart. She could not have been mistaken yesterday,
she could not be deceived in him now; and yet, if he loved her as she
believed, she had said all that a maiden could to show him that she
would listen willingly. She had said too much, and she felt ashamed and
hurt, almost resentful. He was not a boy. If he loved her, he could find
words to tell her so, and should have found them, for she had helped him
to her utmost. Suddenly, she almost hated him, for what his silence made
her feel, and she told herself that she was glad he had not dared to
speak, for she did not love him at all. It was all a sickening mistake,
it was all a miserable little dream; she wished that he would go away
and leave her to herself. Not that she should shed a single tear! She
was far too angry for that, but his presence, so near her, reminded her
of what she had done. He must have seen, all through their talk, that
she was trying to make him tell his love, and there was nothing to tell.
Of course he would despise her. That was natural, but she had a right to
hate him for it, and she would, with all her heart! Her thoughts all
came together in a tumult of disgust and resentment.
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