He threw out his hand towards the face of Artois. "And you--you!" he
repeated.
"I?"
"Yes--you! What have you said to her? Where have you taken her? I at
least am young. My blood speaks to me. I am natural, I am passionate.
I know what I am, what I want; I know it; I say it; I am sincere. I--I
am ready to go naked into the sun before the whole world, and say,
'There! There! This is Isidoro Panacci; and he is this--and this--and
this! Like it or hate it--that does not matter! It is not his fault.
He is like that. He is made like that. He is meant to be like that,
and he is that--he is that!' Do you hear? That is what I am ready to
do. But you--you--! Ah, Madonna! Ah, Madre benedetta!"
He threw up both his hands suddenly, looked at the ceiling and shook
his head sharply from side to side. Then he slapped his hands gently
and repeatedly against his knees, and a grim and almost venerable look
came into his mobile face.
"The great worker! The man of intellect! The man who is above the
follies of that little Isidoro Panacci, who loves a beautiful girl,
and who is proud of loving her, and who knows that he loves her, that
he wants her, that he wishes to take her! Stand still!"--he suddenly
hissed out the words.
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