“Go and dress, dear; go.”
She moved away slowly, turning to look at him. In half an hour she returned, dressed in black, enveloped in a fur cloak, in which she hid her hands. She came and sat down by him, as if she were already tired.
“You are not fit to walk, Lucia; call a fiacchere.”
“I will....” she said in a faint voice.
“What have you got under your cloak?”
“The prayer-book, a veil, a rosary.”
“All the pious baggage of my little nun. Be a saint to thy heart’s content, my beauty. Thanks to you, we shall all get into Paradise.”
“Do not laugh at religion, Alberto.”
“I never laugh at the objects of your faith. Time’s up, my heart; go, and come back soon.”
Lucia threw her arms round his neck, kissed his thin face, and whispered: