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We called her "Liebchen" and she surely acted singular, did Liebchen, but I liked her too. Kreps said she was "symbol," but his ideas and mine didn't agree. He said she was a type of the "Ewigweibliche," which is another good word though a Dutch one. Maybe she was. Maybe Veronica was another type. I guess it's a word that's got some varieties to it.
"Have you noticed, Sister Teresa, how beaming Sister Veronica has looked for the last day or two? I can't think what has come to her." "Can't you, indeed? You must be very slow. Hasn't she been put into the sacristy just before Father Ambrose's visit; now she will be able to put out his vestments herself.
Things seem to come rather easily.... But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. For a time I must do journalism and work hard.... What isn't a day-dream is this: that you and I are going to put an end to flummery and go!" "Go!" said Ann Veronica, clenching her hands. "For better or worse." "For richer or poorer." She could not go on, for she was laughing and crying at the same time.
So they went to Veronica's room, and Elettra brought the tea things, and Matilde made tea, and they both drank it, and talked a little more, and gave the Maltese cat milk in a saucer, on the lower shelf of the little two-storied tea-table. Afterwards, Matilde went away to her room, and Veronica remained alone after Elettra had taken away the things.
Now and then a few words, sung in deep, soft notes, sad as the south wind, floated through the room, and then she and Ghisleri talked about the song, paying no attention whatever to the pair on the sofa. Gianluca sighed and caught his breath. Veronica glanced quickly at him, and then looked again at the top of Ghisleri's head, as the latter bent down.
Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica "dearie," and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness.
I have heard it from Taquisara and from Signor Ghisleri, who are friends of his." "Dying of love for me?" Veronica broke out in a girlish laugh. "How absurd! Why does he not ask for me, if that is true? Not that I would ever marry him! He is like a Perugino angel, with his yellow hair and blue eyes." She laughed again.
He had brought Veronica back in one of her good moods, she having met there and fallen in love with a donkey. Dick confided to me that, without committing himself, he had hinted to Veronica that if she would remain good for quite a long while I might be induced to buy it for her. It was a sturdy little animal, and could be made useful.
Her hand was pressed against her breast, as if she were repressing an inward voice which claimed her attention. Leaning her head against her chair, she had quite pushed out her comb, her hair dropped on her shoulder, and looked like a brown, coiled serpent. Veronica, who had been silently observing her, rose from the sofa, picked up the comb, and fastened her hair, without speaking.
Gianluca came on, and went directly towards Bianca. He was thinner and more transparent than ever. Veronica could almost fancy that she could see the light through his face. She thought he was slightly lame; or, at least, that he walked with a little difficulty. Bianca looked up kindly, as she gave him her hand, for she had always liked him.
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