Now it increased rapidly within Hermione. She was devoured by a terror that was acutely nervous, that gnawed her body as well as her soul.
Gaspare had known Ruffo’s mother in Sicily. And Maurice—he had known Ruffo’s mother. He must have known her. But when? How had he got to know her?
Hermione stood still.
“It must have been when I was in Africa!”
A hundred details of her husband’s conduct, from the moment of his return from the fair till the last kiss he had given her before he went away down the side of Monte Amato, flashed through her mind. And each one seemed to burn her mind as a spark, touching flesh, burns the flesh.
“It was when I was in Africa!”
She went to the window and leaned out into the night over the misty sea. Her lips moved. She was repeating to herself again and again:
“To-morrow I’ll go to Mergellina! To-morrow I’ll go to Mergellina!”