““Love!” She threw the pillow aside and sat up, pulling the be clothes around her. “You hypocrite. ’Tis nothing to you to say that, is it? You prate about love and roses and devotion, but you don’t know the meaning of the word. You never have, and I doubt you ever will.” He let out a harsh breath. “I don’t understand you. How you can say that, after—” He spread his hands and made a baffled sound. “After this.” “This! This is fancy, ’tis infatuation, ’tis a dream. Maybe you love your horses, maybe you love Nemo—all you require of me is a reflection of yourself. You and your bloody mask!” She was crying openly now, her head tilted back, her eyes shut against the tears. “Don’t keep trying to dress it up as love, because I know what love is, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.””
