After the usual laconic greetings, he drew him on one side. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. Jacques is very bad, and I am afraid he may die. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. I can’t rest or work or settle down to anything while things are like this between you and me. Gianfrancesco found himself to be his family’s sole remaining male heir.
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