"Where are you, you lovers?"
X.
She had rapidly regained consciousness. Although scarcely able to stand, she wanted to immediately enter the carriage and go back to the Badiola.
And now, covered with our rugs, she sat back in her seat motionless, exhausted, mute. My brother and I, from time to time, looked at her with uneasiness. The coachman whipped up his horses. Their rapid trot resounded on the road, bordered here and there by blossoming bushes, on that mild April evening, beneath a cloudless sky.
Every now and then, Federico and I asked: "How are you feeling, Juliana?"
She answered: "So, so. A little better."
"Are you cold?"
"Yes; a little."
She answered with a manifest effort. One would almost have said that our questions irritated her; so much so, that finally, as Federico persisted in engaging her in conversation, she said:
"Excuse me, Federico. It tires me to speak."