The prince said to me—
“It is singular, is it not, Claudio, that Violante should be able to remember that time so clearly? Don’t you think it very strange?”
Then, smiling with his previous gentle smile—
“Maria Sophia has never ceased to show partiality for her. Knowing that she is passionately fond of scent, she sends her quantities of essences every year for her birthday. And she has never missed once, all the time we have been here!”
He turned tenderly to his daughter—
“And now you could not get on without them, could you?”
And to me he said, with a shade of sadness—
“She lives on them. You see, Claudio, how white she is!”
I fancied that Anatolia whispered—
“She is dying of them.”