When footsteps cut crisply upon the brick stairway, she did not even trouble to turn her head.
“Is that you, Alexis?” she called languidly.
Vittorio’s voice broke upon her lethargy with the abruptness of a stone thrown into a stagnant pool.
“No, it is I, Vittorio.”
Pierced as by a blade, her numbness fell from her like a mantle. She rose, and leaning against the balustrade, gave vent to a thin cry. “I told you not to come!”
“But surely, you didn’t expect to be obeyed?” Etched against the sombre heavens, Vittorio loomed disproportionately large. He approached and seized her hands almost roughly.
“My mother says you are going to marry this Petrovskey. Tell me it isn’t true, Anna mia?”
“Yes.” She made a feeble effort to withdraw her hands.
“But I thought he had a wife already.”
“She—she died a few weeks ago. Won’t you please let go my hands?”