“In everything?”
“Signora, I trust you; I have always trusted you.”
“And my courage—do you trust that?”
He did not answer.
“I don’t think you do, Gaspare.”
Suddenly she felt that he was right not to trust it. Again she felt beset by fear, and as if she had nothing within her that was strong enough to stand up in further combat against the assaults of the world and of destiny. The desire to know all, to probe this mystery, abruptly left her, was replaced by an almost frantic wish to be always ignorant, if only that ignorance saved her from any fresh sorrow or terror.
“Never mind,” she said. “You needn’t answer. I don’t want—What does it all matter? It’s—it’s all so long ago.”
Having got hold of that phrase, she clung to it as if for comfort.
“It’s all so long ago,” she repeated. “Years and years ago. We’ve forgotten it. We’ve forgotten Sicily, Gaspare. Why should we think of it or trouble about it any more? Good-night, Gaspare.”
She smiled at him, but her face was drawn and looked old.