So Beatrice, who could never love Ruggiero, understood him well and
judged him rightly, and set him up on a sort of pedestal as the
anti-type of his scheming master. And not only this. She felt deeply for
him and pitied him with all her heart, since she had seen his own almost
breaking before her eyes for her sake. She had always been kind to him,
but henceforth there would be something even kinder in her voice when
she spoke to him, as there would be something harder in her tone when
she talked with San Miniato.
And now her mother had appeared and settled herself in her lazy way upon
her long chair, and slowly moved her fan, from habit, though too
indolent to lift it to her face. Beatrice rose and kissed her lightly on
the forehead.
"Good morning, mamma carissima," she said. "Are you very tired after the
excursion?"
"Exhausted, in mind and body, my angel. A cigarette, my dear--it will
give me an appetite."
Beatrice brought her one, and held a match for her mother. Then the
Marchesa shut her eyes, inhaled the smoke and blew out four or five
puffs before speaking again.
"I want to speak to you, my child," she said at last, "but I hardly have
the strength.
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