“Not from you....”
“Permit me not to tell it you....”
“As you please.”
Lucia’s countenance became overclouded; every now and then she drew a long breath.
“What is the matter?”
“Nothing; I am very comfortable. And you, Signor Andrea?”
Was he? He did not answer. Now and again the delicious languor that was stealing over him cooled the current in his veins. He scarcely ventured to breathe. Lucia’s white gown appeared to him like a snowy precipice; a mad desire was on him to cast himself at this woman’s feet, to rest his head on her knees, and to close his eyes like a child.... Was he? when every now and then a savage longing came upon him to throw his arm around that slender waist, and press it so that he might feel it writhe and vibrate with tigerish flexibility? He strove not to think; that was all.
“What stuff is this, Signora Lucia?”
“It is wool.”
“A soft wool.”