Dianora [does so like an automaton and drops the bundle, as in a trance, at her feet].
Braccio [looks at her quietly, reaches with his right hand to his left hip, also with his left hand; notices that he has no dagger. He moves his lips impatiently, glances toward the garden, then over his shoulders. He lifts his right hand for a moment and examines his palm, then walks firmly and quickly back into the room].
Dianora [looks after him incessantly; she cannot take her eyes away from him. As the curtain closes behind his retreating form, she passes her fingers excitedly over her face and through her hair, then folds her hands and murmurs a prayer, her lips wildly convulsed. Then she throws her arms backwards and folds them above the stone pillar, in a gesture that indicates a desperate resolve and a triumphant expectancy].
Braccio [steps into the doorway again, carrying an armchair, which he places in the opening of the door. He seats himself on it, facing his wife. His face does not change. From time to time he raises his right hand mechanically and examines the little wound upon his palm].
Braccio [his tone is cold, rather disdainful. He points with his foot and eyes to the ladder]. Who?
Dianora [raises her shoulders, and drops them slowly].
Braccio. I know!
Dianora [raises her shoulders and drops them slowly. Her teeth are clenched].
Braccio [moves his hand, barely glances at his wife, and looks again into the garden]. Palla degli Albizzi!
Dianora [between her teeth]. How ugly the most beautiful name becomes when uttered by unseemly tongue.