“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. Despite him, it was the beauty that she had inherited from her mother they had used to gain the betrothal, and it had not been easy. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. “Experte credo. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. ‘And I do understand.
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