It was like an order. Maddalena obeyed it, despite a cataract of words from the old woman that voiced indignant protest.
“And do sit down, won’t you? I don’t like to sit while you are standing.”
“Signora, I—”
“Please do sit down.”
Hermione’s voice began to show her acute nervous agitation. Maddalena stared, then took another chair from its place against the wall, and sat down at some distance from Hermione. She folded her plump hands in her lap. Seated, she looked bigger, more graceless, than before. But Hermione saw that she was not really middle-aged. Hard life and trouble doubtless had combined to destroy her youth and beauty early, to coarsen the outlines, to plant the many wrinkles that spread from the corners of her eyes and lips to her temples and her heavy, dusky cheeks. She was now a typical woman of the people. Hermione tried to see her as a girl, long ago—years and years ago.
“I know your son Ruffo very well,” she said.
Maddalena’s face softened.
“Si, Signora. He has told me of you.”
Suddenly she seemed to recollect something.
“I have never—Signora, thank you for the money,” she said.