And, sinking her voice still lower, speaking her name as if she were addressing some other woman, some unhappy friend, she repeated:
"Florence... . Florence—"
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"She is not one of those who kill," thought Don Luis. "I can't believe that she is an accomplice. And yet—and yet—"
He moved away from her and walked across the room from the window to the door. The drawings of Italian landscapes on the wall attracted his attention. Next, he read the titles of the books on the shelves. They represented French and foreign works, novels, plays, essays, volumes of poetry, pointing to a really cultivated and varied taste.
He saw Racine next to Dante, Stendhal near Edgar Allan Poe, Montaigne between Goethe and Virgil. And suddenly, with that extraordinary faculty which
