And, as was
inevitable, this antagonism was constantly leading to things which
seemed to Margarita, and in fact were, unjust and ill-founded.
"She's always flinging out at me, whatever I do," thought
Margarita. "I know one thing; I'll never tell her what the Senorita's
told me; never,-- not till after she's gone."
A sudden suspicion flashed into Margarita's mind. She seated
herself on the bench outside the kitchen door, to wrestle with it.
What if it were not to a convent at all, but to Alessandro, that the
Senorita meant to go! No; that was preposterous. If it had been
that, she would have gone with him in the outset. Nobody who was
plotting to run away with a lover ever wore such a look as the
Senorita wore now. Margarita dismissed the thought; yet it left its
trace. She would be more observant for having had it; her
resuscitated affection far her young mistress was not yet so strong
that it would resist the assaults of jealousy, if that passion were to
be again aroused in her fiery soul. Though she had never been
deeply in love with Alessandro herself, she had been enough so,
and she remembered him vividly enough, to feel yet a sharp
emotion of displeasure at the recollection of his devotion to the
Senorita.
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