But her heart was eaten by some impotence
in her life.
She subdued her flame of life to the little padrone. He was strange and
static, scarcely human, ageless, like a monkey. She supported him with
her flame, supported his static, ancient, beautiful form, kept it
intact. But she did not believe in him.
Now, the Signora Gemma held her husband together whilst he undid the
screw that fixed the spring. If they had been alone, she would have done
it, pretending to be under his direction. But since I was there, he did
it himself; a grey, shaky, highly-bred little gentleman, standing on a
chair with a long screw-driver, whilst his wife stood behind him, her
hands half-raised to catch him if he should fall. Yet he was strangely
absolute, with a strange, intact force in his breeding.
They had merely adjusted the strong spring to the shut door, and
stretched it slightly in fastening it to the door-jamb, so that it drew
together the moment the latch was released, and the door flew open.
We soon made it right. There was a moment of anxiety, the screw was
fixed. And the door swung to. They were delighted.
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