“And you were right; it is fate.”
She looked tragic under her black veil, in her black gown, with the little silver dagger hanging from her waistband. The violet lines under her eyes gave them a voluptuous and sinister expression.
“If Caterina were to come ...” she said, grinding her teeth.
“She will not come....”
“It would be better that she came; I could kill myself here.”
“Oh, Lucia!”
“Do not call me by my name. I hate you.”
Her tone was so passionate in its anger, her lips so livid, that he turned pale, and took off his hat to pass his hand across his forehead. Then suddenly two big tears burst from his frank, sorrowful eyes, ran down his honest, despairing face, and melted on his hands.
“Oh! Andrea, for pity’s sake do not weep. Oh! I implore you, do not make me so unhappy, so unhappy!”
“Che! I am not weeping,” he said, recovering himself and smiling. “It was a passing impression. It used to happen to me with my mother when I was a boy. Will you take my arm? I will take you all over this place.”