One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. Then Capes’ footsteps approached. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. ” “Such independence,” he answered quickly, “is a vice. To think of him as loving her would make all that different. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. I never see them, they never even call. He had only to recall this fact (which he did in each crisis) to erect a barrier she could not go around or over. You’d think he wanted to meet the wretch again.
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