He finished buttoning his gloves. She was standing, looking at him with her serene eyes. He stooped and gave her an absent kiss. Then he turned to go, followed by his wife.
“Arrivederci, Andrea.”
“... Arrivederci.”
He began to descend the stairs; she called out to him from the landing:
“Shall you return late?”
“No. Good-bye, Caterina.”
Lucia had risen late. She told Alberto that she had passed a feverish night. Indeed, her lips were dry and discoloured, her heavy eyelids had livid circles round them. At eleven, she languidly dragged herself, in a black satin dressing-gown, to be present at her husband’s breakfast—two eggs beaten in a cup of café-au-lait—capital stuff for the chest. She sat with her head in her hands. Every now and then dark flushes dyed her face, and she pushed her hair off her temples with a vague gesture that indicated suffering.
“What is the matter with you? You are sadder than usual!”
“I wish I could see you well, Alberto mio. I wish I could give you my heart’s blood.”