“Don’t torment yourself, don’t torment me, dear soul!” he said softly, tenderly drawing her to himself with his conquering sweetness and gentle grace.
Donna Maria let herself be drawn to him, no longer smiling, as if expecting some word or action. But neither action nor word came. After the tender admonition, as usual, a certain dryness rendered them dumb and motionless.
She, as usual, was the first to interrupt this state of mind.
“And then, Marco, how do you know that the fair Vittoria is not going to Lady Clairville’s?”
“Because she no longer goes into society, Maria.”
“Has she taken the veil?” she exclaimed, with a sarcastic smile.
“Almost. For that matter she never has loved the world.”
“Perhaps she flies from you, Marco?”
“Yes, I believe she flies from me.”
“I tell you Vittoria Casalta still loves you,” Maria murmured slowly as if she were speaking to herself, as if she were repeating to herself a thing said many times.