Before they left the table they were all three in that excruciating
state of rawness of the nerves, in which a man has the sensation that
his brain is a violent explosive which a single jarring sound or word
must ignite and blow to atoms, like a bomb-shell.
And all the while Veronica sat peacefully in her room, before her fire,
wrapped in a loose soft dressing-gown, her little feet upon the fender
before her and a book in her hand. A lamp in an upright sliding stand
was on one side of her, and on the other stood a small table. From time
to time her maid brought her something from dinner, of which she ate a
mouthful or two between two paragraphs of her novel.
It was a great pleasure to her to dine in this way, alone, but it was
one she rarely had an opportunity of indulging. Even when her aunt and
uncle dined out she generally had her dinner in the dining-room with
Bosio, who scarcely ever went into society at all. On such occasions
they generally sat together half an hour after the meal was over, before
separating, and it was then that they really enjoyed each other's
conversation. It was very rarely that Veronica yielded to her wish to
be alone and pleaded a more or less imaginary indisposition in order to
stay in her room. Even then, she was not quite sure of being alone for
the whole evening, for Matilde sometimes came in after dinner and
remained with her for half an hour. It had always been the countess's
habit to show the greatest concern and consideration for her niece.
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