“To far-off countries. To Holland, and Denmark, always to the countries furthest off.”
“Why don’t you stay in Rome?” she asked.
“Not to debase myself under your eyes, Maria,” he replied seriously. “There is nothing left but vice for me, and I am ashamed to defile that which you have loved.”
“Your wife, Vittoria. What of her?”
“She is with my mother.”
“Surely she suffers by your absence?”
“Possibly; less, however, than she does by my presence.”
“Why did she suffer?”
“I suppose she suffered; but she has never told me she did, she never showed me, and I have never seen her tears. She always repulsed any consolation of mine for this supposed suffering of hers.”
“Poor Vittoria,” murmured Maria.