It was quite clear in his mind, as
simple as daylight, as easy of performance as breathing, as satisfactory
as satisfaction itself. The Duchessa was with him, and supported all he
said with approving nods and futile gestures and incoherent phrases
thrown in, as one throws straws upon a stream to see the current carry
them away.
Gianluca said nothing, and Veronica stood alone against them all, for
she knew that he was on his father's side. She guessed, perhaps, that
Gianluca had made up his mind never to leave her roof except as her
lawful husband, clinging to her, as he had tried to cling to her skirt
on that most eventful day when she had gone to the window for a moment;
and she understood why, having spoken once, he would not speak again. He
was too proud to repeat such a request, but his love was far too
obstinate to be satisfied with less than its fulfilment. But his own
hope for his recovery was more alive than hers.
Instinctively, as she opposed them all, Veronica looked round for
Taquisara. It was not often that she needed help, and she knew that he
could have helped her, had he been there. But she had to speak for
herself. She said what she could; but in that self-examination which
self-defence forces upon those who have never dissected their own
hearts, a new and fearful truth sprang up, clear of all others, bright,
keen, and terrible.
It was no longer for her people's sake that she was waiting in the hope
of Gianluca's recovery.
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