"And I went to visit Ruffo's mother."
Gaspare made no response. He looked down now as he plied his oars.
"She seems a nice woman. I--I dare say she was quite pretty once."
The voice that was speaking now was the voice of a fanatic.
"I am sure she must have been pretty."
"Chi lo sa?"
"If one looks carefully one can see the traces. But, of course, now--"
She stopped abruptly. It was impossible to her to go on. She was
passionately trying to imagine what that spreading, graceless woman,
with her fat hands resting on her knees set wide apart, was like once
--was like nearly seventeen years ago. Was she ever pretty, beautiful?
Never could she have been intelligent--never, never. Then she must
have been beautiful. For otherwise-- Hermione's drawn face was flooded
with scarlet.
"If--if it's easier to you to row standing up, Gaspare," she almost
stammered, "never mind about sitting down."
"I think it is easier, Signora."
He got up, and once more turned his back upon her.
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