To her, their marriage had been the final cementing of
the most beautiful friendship in the world. She was glad that she had
given her life for him, since, after all, the giving of it now changed
it so little. It was clear, she thought, that she was made for
friendship and not for love; and since she was so made, she had done the
best in marrying her best friend.
One day, when Gianluca was asleep, she had gone alone to her little rose
garden up by the dungeon tower. The autumn was beginning in the
mountains; there were few roses left, and the northerly breeze blew up
to her out of the vast depth at her feet. Alone there, she thought of
all these things and of how she was intended by her nature for this
friendship of hers. Seasoning about it with herself, she took an
imaginary case. Suppose, she thought, that she had begun to be
Taquisara's friend, instead of Gianluca's, on that day in Bianca's
garden. Her mind worked quickly. She pictured to herself the long
correspondence, the intimacy of thought, the meeting and the destruction
of the dividing barrier, the daily, hourly growing friendship, and
then--the marriage, the touch of hands, the first kiss.
The scarlet blood leapt up like fire to her face. She started and
looked round, half dreading lest some one might be there to see. But she
was quite alone, and she wondered at herself. It must be shame, she
thought, at the mere idea of marrying another man when she was
Gianluca's wife.
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