“What are you embroidering to-day?” inquired Alberto of Lucia.
“A heart, pierced by a dagger.”
Once in his room, Andrea closed the shutters and threw himself on his bed, in a state of fatigue of which he had had no experience till now. He had been mastered in the struggle with circumstances. His impetuous nature, alien to compromise, was incapable of endurance: he could neither wait nor calculate. “Nevermore, nevermore,” he kept repeating to himself, with his face buried in the pillows.
Twice Caterina came in on tiptoe and leant over him, holding her breath lest he should be sleeping. He feigned sleep, repressing a shrug of annoyance. Was he not free to shut himself up in his room, and vent his feelings by punching a mattress? Need he submit to all this wearisome business? But Lucia, do
