He took a seat on a hard chair. His face had changed. Generally it was what is called “an open face.” Now it looked the opposite to that. When she glanced at him, almost furtively, Hermione was once more assailed by fear. She began to speak quickly, with determination, to combat her fear.
“Gaspare, I may be wrong, but for some time I have felt now and then as if you and I were not quite as we used to be together, as if—well, now and then it seems to me as if there was a wall, and I was on one side of the wall and you were on the other. I don’t like that feeling, after having you with me so long. I don’t like it, and I want to get rid of it.”
She paused.
“Si, Signora,” he said, in a low voice.
He was now looking at the floor. His arms were resting on his knees, and his hands hung down touching each other.
“It seems to me that—I never noticed the thing between us until—until Ruffo came to the island.”
“Ruffo?”
“Yes, Gaspare, Ruffo.”
She spoke with increasing energy and determination, still combating her still formless fear. And because of this interior combat her manner and voice were not quite natural, though she strove to keep them so, knowing well how swiftly a Sicilian will catch the infection of a strange mood, will be puzzled by it, be made obstinate, even dogged by it.
“I am sure that all this—I mean that this has something to do with Ruffo.”