“The Directress is cruel,” said Avigliana.
“And the Vice-Directress is a wretch,” added Vitali.
“And as far as malignity goes, Cherubina Friscia is no joke,” observed Pentasuglia.
“Dio mio, may I soon leave this house!” exclaimed Casacalenda.
All heads bent in acquiescence to this prayer. There was a spell of silence. Caterina Spaccapietra, overcome by a great lassitude, dragged slowly at her needle.
“Minichini, darling, tell us about the Dame aux Camélias,” entreated Giovanna Casacalenda, her sweet voice thrilling with the passion of the unknown.
“I cannot, my heart.”
“Why not? is it so dreadful? Tell it, Minichini. Artemisia, sweetest, tell us about that book.” The others did not speak, but curiosity burned in their eyes; desire dried the words on their parched lips. Giovanna pleaded for them, her great eyes brimming over with entreaty, while a languid smile played about her full lips.
“Well, I’ll tell it you. But you will never tell any one, Giovanna?”
“No, dear love.”