“I know it is true. You knew Gaspare in Sicily. You come from Marechiaro.”
At the mention of the last word light broke into Maddalena’s face.
“You are from Marechiaro. Have you ever seen me before? Do you remember me?”
Maddalena shook her head.
“And I—I don’t remember you. But you are from Marechiaro. You must be.”
Maddalena shook her head again.
“You are not?”
Hermione looked into the long Arab eyes, searching for a lie. She met a gaze that was steady but dull, almost like that of a sulky child, and for a moment she felt as if this woman was only a great child, heavy, ignorant, but solemnly determined, a child that had learned its lesson and was bent on repeating it word for word.
“Did Gaspare come here early this morning to see you?” she asked, with sudden vehemence.
Maddalena was obviously startled. Her face flushed.