“Go, Caterina. I will read a book, and your husband the Piccolo. Have you a Leopardi?”
“No. I am so sorry....”
“Well, I will amuse myself with my own thoughts. Go, dear, go.”
Andrea listened, without saying a word.
“You may go to sleep,” whispered his wife, as she bade him good-bye. They did not kiss each other in the presence of their visitors. She went away contented with having provided for everything. They followed her with their eyes. Then, without a word, Lucia offered the newspaper to Andrea, who unfolded it. While he pretended to read, he watched Lucia out of the corner of his eye. She was looking at him with so bewitching a smile, that again she appeared to him like a woman transformed—so placid and youthful in her white gown.
“Are you not bored, Signorina?”
“No; I am thinking.”
“Tell me what you are thinking of.”
“What can it matter to you? I am thinking of far-off things.”
“It is morbid to think too much. Sometimes, but not often, it happens to me, too, to think.”