Casanova knew how she saw him, for he saw himself figured in imagination, just as he had seen himself yesterday in the bedroom mirror.

A yellow, evil face, deeply lined, with thin lips and staring eyes--a face three times worse than that of yesterday, because of the excesses of the night, the ghastly dream of the morning, and the terrible awakening.

And what he read in Marcolina's countenance was not what he would a thousand times rather have read there; it was not thief, libertine, villain.

He read only something which crushed him to earth more ignominiously than could any terms of abuse; he read the word which to him was the most dreadful of all words, since it passed a final judgment upon him--old man.
Had it been within his power to annihilate himself by a spell, he would have done so, that he might be spared from having to creep out of the bed and display himself to Marcolina in his nakedness, which must appear to her more loathsome than the sight of some loathsome beast.
But Marcolina, as if gradually collecting herself, and manifestly in order to give him the opportunity which was indispensable, turned her face to the wall.

He seized the moment to get out of bed, to raise the cloak from the floor, and to wrap himself in it.