Below the window the sentry tramped slowly up and
down in his beat, his steps alone breaking the intense stillness
of the winter night. Corona realised that she was in a prison.
There was something in the discomfort which was not repugnant to
her, as she held the grating in her fingers and let the cold air
blow upon her face.
After all, she thought, her life would seem much the same in such
a place, in a convent, perhaps, where she could be alone all day,
all night, for ever. She could not be more unhappy behind those
bars than she had often been in the magnificent palaces in which
her existence had been chiefly passed. Nothing gave her pleasure,
nothing interested her, nothing had the power to distract her mind
from the aching misery that beset it. She said to herself a
hundred times a day that such apathy was unworthy of her, and she
blamed herself when she found that even the loss of the great
Saracinesca suit left her indifferent. She did no good to herself
and none to any one else, so far as she could see, unless it were
good to allow Giovanni to love her, now that she no longer felt a
thrill of pleasure at his coming nor at the sound of his voice. At
least she had been honest. She could say that, for she had not
deceived him.
Pages:
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535