“Tell him what you please.”
“His love does not move you?”
“No.”
“His pity does not soften you?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t his pardon seem a sublime act to you? Is he not a hero?”
“I am a miserable creature made of clay, and I do not understand sublimity.”
They were silent. The weather became warmer and slightly heavier, and the singing of the little birds in the trees grew weaker. Some of the roses had scattered their leaves on the ground.
“And with all this what are we going to do with Marco Fiore?” she broke in with irony.
“With Marco?”