She would inquire.
She would search. She would find out the hideous truth. It was this
fear which made him argue on the same side as Artois. But in doing so
he caught another fear from his own words. He became really natural,
really truthful in his fear. And--she scarcely knew why--Hermione was
even more governed by him than by Artois. He had lived with them in
the Casa del Prete, had been an intimate part of their life there. And
he was Sicilian of the soil. The boy had a real power to move, to
dominate her, which he did not then suspect.
Again and again he repeated those words, "/La povera bambina--la
povera piccola bambina/." And at last Hermione was overcome.
"I won't go to Sicily," she said to Artois. "For if I went there I
could only go to Monte Amato. I won't go until Vere is old enough to
wish to go, to wish to see the house where her father and I were
happy."
And she had never gone back. For Artois had not been satisfied with
this early victory.
In returning from a tour in North America the following spring, when
Vere was nearly two years old, he had paid a visit to Marechiaro, and,
while there, had seen the contadino from whom Hermione had rented, and
still rented, the house of the priest.
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