“Winter is at hand. Would you like for us to go abroad?”
“Where?”
“To Italy.”
“You are tired of here?”
“I am afraid of the winter; I am particularly afraid of your return to Paris.”
“Why?”
“For many reasons.”
And she went on abruptly, without giving me her reasons for fears:
“Will you go abroad? I will sell all that I have; we will go and live there, and there will be nothing left of what I was; no one will know who I am. Will you?”
“By all means, if you like, Marguerite, let us travel,” I said. “But where is the necessity of selling things which you will be glad of when we return? I have not a large enough fortune to accept such a sacrifice; but I have enough for us to be able to travel splendidly for five or six months, if that will amuse you the least in the world.”