Do you wonder that the ladies in striped blankets gave the cheek to Maso Cecci and turned to Marco Zoppa? That wasn't all, but it was an accentuation of a long series of spiteful injuries wrought him by the wrinkled old villain.
And Maso Cecci, he too, rushed away white and chattering. Rage had past definition with him, he saw things red, and they choked him. The air felt thick to him, full of flies. He brushed his hands before his face, struck out vaguely, and swore as the dazzling black things settled round him again in a swarm.