Caterina put out the light, crossed herself, and immediately fell asleep, according to her wont. Andrea had waited, throbbing for that moment, to press to his heart the lace scarf, warm from the neck of Lucia, to kiss it, to put his teeth into it, to wind it round his hands and his throat, to cool his temples, and cover his eyes with it, during his long vigil.
Next morning Alberto alarmed the whole household by his sighs and groans. On rising he had coughed three times, and while washing his face he had coughed again. His throat was rough and relaxed, and he complained of an oppression on his chest.
“Where can I have caught cold? Where can I have caught it? I who am so cautious. I always wear a silk handkerchief round my neck, and a flannel shirt. A draught, I suppose.”
He gave vent to his feelings in front of the glass, which reflected a pale face; putting out his tongue, trying to see down his throat, drawing long breaths to discover any possible obstruction. Lucia comforted him sweetly.
“Do you think I am ill? Do I look very seedy?”
“Why, no; don’t indulge in fancies. You have your everyday face. Often, when I’m quite well, I cough on getting out of bed.”
“Even when you wash your face?”
“Oh! always.”
“Oh! really? But I am so delicate....”