"It was in the summer-time--" She was again in Sicily. She was tracing
out a story. It was almost as if she saw words and read them from a
book. "There were no forestieri in Sicily. They had all gone. Only we
were there--" An expression so faint that it was like a fleeting
shadow passed over Maddalena's face, the fleeting shadow of something
that denied. "Ah, yes! Till I went away, you mean! I went to Africa.
Did you know it then? But before I went--before--" She was thinking,
she was burrowing deep down into the past, stirring the heap of
memories that lay like drifted leaves. "They used to go--at least they
went once--down to the sea. One night they went to the fishing. And
they slept out all night. They slept in the caves. Ah, you know that?
You remember that night!"
The trembling that shook her body was reflected in her voice, which
became tremulous. She heard the tram-bell ringing. She saw the green
parrot listening on its board. And yet she was in Sicily, and saw the
line of the coast between Messina and Cattaro, the Isle of the Sirens,
the lakelike sea of the inlet between it and the shore.
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