“Give up the palazzo, Giovanni, and the vineyard on the hills, for which we are starving our love.”
She ceased, seeing Linda standing silent at the corner of the house.
Nostromo turned to his affianced wife with a greeting, and was amazed at her sunken eyes, at her hollow cheeks, at the air of illness and anguish in her face.
“Have you been ill?” he asked, trying to put some concern into this question.
Her black eyes blazed at him. “Am I thinner?” she asked.
“Yes—perhaps—a little.”
“And older?”
“Every day counts—for all of us.”
“I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger,” she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him.
She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves.