She kept silence, working diligently to keep herself from asking questions.
'Did Maria degli Angioli complain much of me?' he asked, without stopping his excited walk.
'No,' she said timidly; 'she would like to see you, as I said.'
'To see me—see me? To recount her woes, and hear all about mine? A fine way of filling up the time. Well, if she liked, if she chose, our woes would soon be ended.'
Bianca Maria's trembling hand entangled the thread round the bobbins and pins of the pattern.
'These holy women,' the Marquis di Formosa went on slowly, as if he were speaking in a dream—'these holy women, who are always praying, have pure hearts; they are in God's favour and the saints'; they enjoy special protection; they see things we poor sinners cannot. Sister Maria degli Angioli might save us if she liked, but she won't. She is too saintly, she does not care for earthly things. Now, our sufferings don't signify to her; she knows nothing about them. She never will tell me anything; never—never.'
Bianca Maria looked up, let the work fall from her hands, and gazed at her father, her eyes full of wondering pain.
'You have never asked her for anything, have you, Bianca?' he said, stopping beside his daughter.
'For what?' she asked, wondering.