“No,” in a whisper.
“Yes, you are angry; I am a brute.” As he said this, he tried to force open her clenched hand. But he was afraid of hurting her, and so he failed. He begged her not to drive her nails into the palm of her hand. The pain of doing so accentuated the angles at the corners of her lips; her head was turned away from him, resting against the cushioned back of the sofa.
“Lucia, Lucia ...” he murmured, “be good to one who is unworthy.” At last, with a sigh of triumph, he opened the hand which he held: four red marks disfigured its palm. Andrea looked at it, wishing but not daring to kiss it; he blew over it childishly.
“Bobo, gone!”
She vouchsafed a smile, but no reply. Andrea tried to pacify her, whispering nonsense to her. He mimicked the tone of a child, begging its mother’s pardon, promising “never to do so again,” if only it may not be sent to the dark room, where it is frightened. And the strong man’s voice assumed so infantile an expression, he imitated the whine, the grimaces, the feline movements of certain children to such perfection, that she could not restrain the fit of nervous laughter which overcame her, and throbbed in her white throat as she fell back in her cushions.
“Little mother, forgive?” he wound up with.
“Si, si,” and, still laughing, she gave him a little pat on the shoulder.
Again he fought down his desire to kiss her hand.
“Do you know that you are not so thin as usual to-night?”
“Do you think so?” she replied, as if weary with laughter.