Smiling, she said these things, without changing her easy attitude; the arm that plied the fan was carefully rounded, and she looked at him with a little air of superiority.
“But if my uncle dies ...” whined her victim.
“Your uncle is not going to die just yet, I have observed him carefully; he’s solid.”
“You are positively malevolent, Giovanna ... remember....”
“What would you have me remember? Do try to be sensible. Let us go back.”
They went away, and those superb camellias that Giovanna so closely resembled told no tales, neither did they murmur among themselves.
“Very fine indeed!” said Andrea Lieti, admiring the general effect, while the divan creaked under his weight. “But give me Centurano.”
“Real country must always surpass in beauty its counterfeit presentment,” mumbled timid Galimberti, Professor of History. “But these Casacalendas have a fine, luxurious taste.”
“Bah! respected Professor, they want to marry their daughter, and they are sure to succeed.”