"It is so beautiful," said San Miniato.
Beatrice said nothing, but made an impatient movement that betrayed that
she was displeased.
"Home, Ruggiero," said San Miniato's voice.
"Make sail!" Ruggiero called out, he himself hauling out the mizzen. A
minute later the sails filled and the boat sped out over the smooth
water, white-winged as a sea-bird under the great summer moon.
CHAPTER VIII.
It was late on the following morning when the Marchesa came out upon her
curtained terrace, moving slowly, her hands hanging listlessly down, her
eyes half closed, as though regretting the sleep she might be still
enjoying. Beatrice was sitting by a table, an open book beside her which
she was not reading, and she hardly noticed her mother's light step. The
young girl had spent a sleepless night, and for the first time since she
had been a child a few tears had wet her pillow. She could not have told
exactly why she had cried, for she had not felt anything like sadness,
and tears were altogether foreign to her nature. But the unsought return
of all the impressions of the evening had affected her strangely, and
she felt all at once shame, anger and regret--shame at having been so
easily deceived by the play of a man's face and voice, anger against him
for the part he had acted, and regret for something unknown but dreamt
of and almost understood, and which could never be.
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