would not hear them from the lips of this man, she would not allow this man to be the first to speak them in her ear. She had a sudden intuition of their importance and their sweetness and their magic; and she felt that it was almost a contamination to hear them.
She entreated him:
"Be quiet. ... I shall be so grateful if you will. ..."
"No, no," he cried, "I must speak. Ever since I have known you, the words I have to say have been on my lips, suffocating me. ... Gilberte, Gilberte, I ..."
She gave a desperate glance, the glance of a victim which does not know how to defend itself and awaits the blow that is about to fall. He stammered:
"Oh, your eyes ... your eyes ...!"
He remained on his knees, humble and undecided, and repeated, in a low voice:
"Your eyes ... yes ... my father told me ... child's eyes that put one off ..."
