JULIA (bitterly). And pet me, and say pretty things to me! I wonder
you don't offer me a saucer of milk at once?
PARAMORE (astonished). Why?
JULIA. Because you seem to regard me very much as if I were a Persian
cat.
PARAMORE (in strong remonstrance). Miss Cra--
JULIA (cutting him short). Oh, you needn't protest. I'm used to it:
It's the only sort of attachment I seem always to inspire.
(Ironically) You can't think how flattering it is!
PARAMORE. My dear Miss Craven, what a cynical thing to say! You! who
are loved at first sight by the people in the street as you pass. Why,
in the club I can tell by the faces of the men whether you have been
lately in the room or not.
JULIA (shrinking fiercely). Oh, I hate that look in their faces. Do
you know that I have never had one human being care for me since I was
born?
PARAMORE. That's not true, Miss Craven. Even if it were true of your
father, and of Charteris, who loves you madly in spite of your dislike
for him, it is not true of me.
JULIA (startled). Who told you that about Charteris?
PARAMORE. Why, he himself.
JULIA (with deep, poignant conviction).
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