In the pauses of conversation the
shrillings of the canary were alone audible and suggested the distant
piping of a flute.
"Listen," he said, planting himself in front of her, "I've come to
possess myself of you again. Yes, I want to begin again. You know that
well; then why do you talk to me as you do? Answer me; tell me you
consent."
Her head was bent, and she was scratching the blood-red straw of the
seat underneath her. Seeing him so anxious, she did not hurry to answer.
But at last she lifted up her face. It had assumed a grave expression,
and into the beautiful eyes she had succeeded in infusing a look of
sadness.
"Oh, it's impossible, little man. Never, never, will I live with you
again."
"Why?" he stuttered, and his face seemed contracted in unspeakable
suffering.
"Why? Hang it all, because--It's impossible; that's about it. I don't
want to."
He looked ardently at her for some seconds longer. Then his legs curved
under him and he fell on the floor. In a bored voice she added this
simple advice:
"Ah, don't be a baby!"
But he was one already. Dropping at her feet, he had put his arms round
her waist and was hugging her closely, pressing his face hard against
her knees.
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