“And he—you don’t love him?” I asked in agitation.
“How could you imagine my loving a man of his brutal type? You were blind to everything, I was really afraid for you.”
“I almost killed myself for your sake.”
“Really?” she cried, “ah, I still tremble at the thought, that you were already in the Arno.”
“But you saved me,” I replied, tenderly. “You hovered over the waters and smiled, and your smile called me back to life.”
* * * * *
I have a curious feeling when I now hold her in my arms and she lies silently against my breast and lets me kiss her and smiles. I feel like one who has suddenly awakened out of a feverish delirium, or like a shipwrecked man who has for many days battled with waves that momentarily threatened to devour him and finally has found a safe shore.
* * * * *
“I hate this Florence, where you have been so unhappy,” she declared, as I was saying good-night to her. “I want to leave immediately, tomorrow, you will be good enough to write a couple of letters for me, and, while you are doing that, I will drive to the city to pay my farewell visits. Is that satisfactory to you?”
“Of course, you dear, sweet, beautiful woman.”