And he left her, loosening himself from her, putting back her thin arms on the coverlet. She followed him with her glance, never taking her eyes off him, as if through them she could know what Dr. Amati was saying to her father in a low tone.
Dr. Amati, with great delicacy and a shudder of grief that made his voice shake uncontrollably, was explaining to him that meningitis is a frightful malady which burns the brain, breaks the nerves, and makes the unlucky patients attacked by it rave for days and days: it incites them to constant anger, and fury, even. Poor Bianca Maria was a victim to this fancy, that she could not bear to have anyone in her room; and that if he loved his daughter, if he did not wish to hear her burst out into wild talk, would he be so kind as to go into another room?...
'Did my daughter tell you that?' the old man asked, deadly pale, with his eyebrows knitted.
'Yes, it was she who said it.'
'Does she wish to have no one in her room?'
'No, no one.'
'Except yourself, is that it?'
'Yes, I may stay.'
'Does my daughter turn me out?' shrieked the old man.
'For goodness' sake, my lord, do not get irritated! Have pity on your daughter, yourself, and me.'