She, indeed, had only told him that her husband had been
killed, but Spicca had once said of her that she had been married to a
man who had never been her husband.
"A memory is one thing--real life is quite another," said Orsino at
last, resuming his walk.
"And to be faithful cannot possibly mean to be faithless," answered
Maria Consuelo in a low voice.
She rose and went to one of the windows. She must have wished to hide
her face, for the outer blinds and the glass casement were both shut and
she could see nothing but the green light that struck the painted wood.
Orsino went to her side.
"Shall I open the window?" he asked in a constrained voice.
"No--not yet. I thought I could see out."
Still she stood where she was, her face almost touching the pane, one
small white hand resting upon the glass, the fingers moving restlessly.
"You meant yourself, just now," said Orsino softly.
She neither spoke nor moved, but her face grew pale. Then he fancied
that there was a hardly perceptible movement of her head, the merest
shade of an inclination.
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