" Hermione leaned forward. "You know my servant,
Gaspare?"
Maddalena was silent.
"You know Gaspare. Did you know him in Sicily?"
"Sicily?" Her face and her voice had become stupid. "Sicily?" she
repeated.
The parrot shifted on the board, lifted its left claw, and craned its
head forward in the direction of the two women. The tram-bell sounded
its reiterated appeal.
"Yes, in Sicily. You are a Sicilian?"
"Who says so?"
"Your son is a Sicilian. At the port they call him 'Il Siciliano.' "
"Do they?"
Her intellect seemed to be collapsing. She looked almost bovine.
Hermione's excitement began to be complicated by a feeling of hot
anger.
"But don't you know it? You must know it!"
The parrot shuffled slowly along the board, coming nearer to them, and
bowing its head obsequiously. Hermione could not help watching its
movements with a strained attention. Its presence distracted her. She
had a longing to take it up and wring its neck. Yet she loved birds.
"You must know it!" she repeated, no longer looking at Maddalena.
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