He had dared to say:
"You love the Signorina. I know it; the Signora knows it; Gaspare--he
knows it. And now you--you know it."
Was it possible that his deep interest in Vere, his paternal delight
in her talent, in her growing charm, in her grace and sweetness, could
have been mistaken for something else, for the desire of man for
woman? Vere had certainly never for a moment misunderstood him. That
he knew as surely as he knew that he was alive. But Gaspare and
Hermione? He fell into deep thought, and presently he was shaken by an
emotion that was partly disgust and partly anxiety. He got up from his
chair and looked out into the night. The weather was exquisitely
still, the sky absolutely clear. The sea was like the calm that dwells
surely in the breast of God. Naples was sleeping in the silence. But
he was terribly awake, and it began to seem to him as if he had,
perhaps, slept lately, slept too long. He was a lover of truth, and
believed himself to be a discerner of it. The Marchesino was but a
thoughtless, passionate boy, headstrong, Pagan, careless of intellect,
and immensely physical.
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