The coldest bitterness was in Vittoria’s voice, and she continued mechanically to knit her bodice.
“And what do you say, Vittoria? What are you going to do?”
“I? I am going to say and do nothing, mother!” she exclaimed harshly.
“Aren’t you going to help yourself? defend yourself?”
“I can’t help myself, and nothing can defend me;” and she turned her head away, perhaps so that the mother of her husband might read nothing there.
“But at least you love your husband?” the mother-in-law cried.
“I love him,” proclaimed the young woman, with unexpected ardour in her accent. “I love him. It is he who doesn’t love me. So you see all is useless.”
“Why do you think he doesn’t love you? How do you know? How are you convinced of it?”
“Mother, mother, you are convinced of it, you have always been convinced of it,” replied the young woman with dignity.
Donna Arduina rose from her place, and stretched out a hand to touch Vittoria’s, with a sad, consoling caress.