He smiled and blinked with his eyes, without replying.
"What was Dutri doing here?"
"He wanted ... Oh, mamma, never mind, don't ask me!... How beautiful you look! May I, too, kiss your hand?"
Winningly, jestingly he took her hand and kissed it. She took his book from his fingers, read the treasonable title:
"Are you reading again, Othomar?... You know you mustn't read so much. And why all these strange books?..."
On the table lay Lassalle, Marx, works by Russian nihilists, a pamphlet by Bakounine, pamphlets by Zanti.... The little work which he was reading was by a well-known Liparian anarchist and entitled, Injustice by the Grace of God; it overthrew everything: religion and the state; it addressed itself directly to the crowned tyrants in power; it addressed itself directly to Oscar.
"Is it to get back your health, Othomar, that you read this sort of thing?" she asked, in a tone of pained reproach.
"But, mamma, I must see what it is that they want...."
"And what do they want?"
He looked pensively before him: