“No, Marco.”
She returned to the sofa, throwing herself down gently, and drawing under her head a cushion to support her mass of hair. So they remained for a while, he smoking his cigarette slowly, and she looking at a distant part of the room, her hands stretched along her body.
“Have you found some place for us, Marco, for August?”
“I am very uncertain,” he murmured. “In whatever holiday place one goes, however far away, one meets people.”
“Far too many,” she added.
“You don’t wish to meet any one?”
“That is so; I should like not to.”
“It is impossible, Maria.”
“People always make me suffer so.”
“Why, dear?”