“Dearest Raymond!” interrupted Perdita, in a supplicating accent.

He had been walking to and fro in the marble hall of the seraglio; his very lips were pale with rage, while, quivering, they shaped his angry words⁠—his eyes shot fire⁠—his gestures seemed restrained by their very vehemence. “Perdita,” he continued, impatiently, “I know what you would say; I know that you love me, that you are good and gentle; but this is no woman’s work⁠—nor can a female heart guess at the hurricane which tears me!”