“No, nothing.”
“Thank you.”
He drew himself up as if he were both relieved and satisfied: there was a secret between them about which they could talk without being understood by any one else—about which neither could think without knowing that the other shared the thought. Lucia started imperceptibly, and then turned and asked him:
“And you?”
“What?”
“Have you spoken of it?”
“To whom?”
“To Caterina, to your Nini?”
“No, no...!” in evident agitation.
“You might have told her,” she replied slowly, “you who love her so much.”