In a moment like that, Andrea felt he could have beaten her, so wicked did she seem to him. He went away to Caserta to write her a furious letter from the post-office. When he returned she was worse, absorbed in silence, no longer deigning to answer any one. Those about her were so much influenced by her bad temper that they did not speak either. Every now and then, Alberto would ask:
“Lucia mia, is there anything you want?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“To die.”
The newspaper shook in Andrea’s hand; he was pretending to read, while not a word was lost upon him.
“Lucia, shall we go to the wood to-morrow?” ventured Caterina, timidly, to give her something to talk about.
“No, I hate the wood, and the green, and the country....”
“Yesterday you said that you loved them.”
“To-day I hate what I loved yesterday,” said Lucia, in her sententious tone.