She listened wearily, and her head ached more and more, so that she
longed for the coolness of her own room and for Nella's soothing
chatter, to which she was so much accustomed that she missed it if the
little brown woman chanced to be silent.
The sun went down and wax candles were brought, instead of the tall oil
lamps that were used on ordinary days. It grew hotter and hotter, the
compliments of the ladies seemed more and more dull and stale, her
mantle was heavy and even the gold circlet on her hair was a burden.
Worse than all, she knew that every minute was carrying her further and
further into the dominion of the irrevocable whence she could never
return.
She had looked at the palaces she had passed in Venice that morning,
some in shadow, some in sunlight, some with gay faces and some grave,
but all so different from the big old house in Murano, that she did not
wish to live in them at all. It would have been much easier to submit if
she had been betrothed to a foreigner, a Roman, or a Florentine. She had
been told that Romans were all wicked and gloomy, and that Florentines
were all wicked and gay. That was what Nella had heard. But in a sense
they were free, for they probably did what was good in their own eyes,
as wicked people often do.
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