“Your father? But—if you love me———”
“He is old. He is ill. He has no one but me. I cannot leave him.”
“Zabetta!”
“No, no. I cannot leave him. Oh, Dio mio!”
“But Zabetta————”
“No. It would be a sin. Oh, the worst of sins. He is old and ill. I cannot leave him. Don’t ask me. It would be dreadful.”
“But then? Then what? What shall we do?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I wish I were dead.”
The cab came to a standstill, and Zabetta said, “Here we are.” I helped her to descend. We were before a dark porte-cochêre, in some dark back-street, high up the hillside.
“Addio,” said Zabetta, holding out her hand.