“You are good,” said Andrea.
Meanwhile the people were arriving in crowds, and filling every nook and corner, even to the recesses in the window, and the steps of the platform. In one corner sat a group of young men chatting without lowering their voices; one of them was scribbling notes in a pocket-book, another making telegraphic signs to the secretary of the committee, another yawning. Among them was a young woman, simply dressed in mourning; her face, under her black-brimmed hat, was pale and sickly.
“Those are the journalists,” said Andrea to Lucia. “There are the correspondents of the Liberta, the Popolo Romano, the Fanfulla, for Rome; of the Pungolo and the Piccolo, for Naples.”
“And is she a journalist?”
“I think so, but I don’t know her name.”
“I envy her, if she is intelligent; she at least has an aim.”
“Bah! you would rather be a woman.”
“Glory is worth having.”
“But love is better,” he continued, in a serious tone.
“... Love?”