But always his eyes had this strange, half-diabolic, half-tortured pale
gleam, like a goat's, and his mouth was shut almost uglily, his cheeks
stern. His moustache was brown, his teeth strong and spaced. The women
said it was a pity his moustache was brown.
'_Peccato!--sa, per bellezza, i baffi neri--ah-h!_'
Then a long-drawn exclamation of voluptuous appreciation.
'You live quite alone?' I said to him.
He did. And even when he had been ill he was alone. He had been ill two
years before. His cheeks seemed to harden like marble and to become pale
at the thought. He was afraid, like marble with fear.
'But why,' I said, 'why do you live alone? You are sad--_e triste_.'
He looked at me with his queer, pale eyes. I felt a great static misery
in him, something very strange.
'_Triste!_' he repeated, stiffening up, hostile. I could not understand.
'_Vuol' dire che hai l'aria dolorosa_,' cried Maria, like a chorus
interpreting. And there was always a sort of loud ring of challenge
somewhere in her voice.
'Sad,' I said in English.
'Sad I' he repeated, also in English. And he did not smile or change,
only his face seemed to become more stone-like.
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