“And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all. Besides, your remark is not in the least complimentary. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. A quarter of an hour passed. “A man who does not touch his wife, who ignores his wife, what kind of man is he? I am not sick any more. ” Obediently, Lucy placed the stone upon the mausoleum. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. Her mother tried to soothe her with tales of romance and love, of all the fineries that she would enjoy in the Palazzo, but all Lucia could do was cry until her cheeks twitched and her forehead ached.
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