Then she noticed it; and to be more certain, she seized my head, and drew it back with an almost brutal movement.
"You are crying."
Her voice had changed.
I freed myself as if confused. I rose to flee, like one who is no longer master of an overflowing affliction.
"Adieu, adieu! Let me go. Adieu, Juliana!"
And I left the room precipitately.
When I was alone, I felt disgusted with myself.
It was the evening of the party given in honor of the invalid. A few hours later, when I went back to her to be present as usual at her slight meal, I found that my mother was with her. As soon as my mother saw me she cried:
"Well, Tullio, to-morrow is the great day."
Juliana and I looked at each other, both of us anxious. Then we spoke of the morrow, of the hour at which she should rise, of a thousand petty details, but with a kind of effort. We were preoccupied. I wished inwardly that my mother would not leave us alone.