He had no eyes for anyone but Marcolina, who smiled at him frankly and in the friendliest fashion.
In her lap was a plateful of early-ripe grapes, which she was eating deliberately.
Contempt, anger, and hatred vanished from Casanova's heart.

All he knew was that he loved her.

Made drunken by the very sight of her, he turned away from the window to find Olivo on hands and knees still assembling the scattered pages of manuscript from under the table and chest of drawers.

"Don't trouble any further," he said to his host.

"Leave me to myself for a moment while I get ready for the drive." "No hurry," answered Olivo, rising, and brushing the dust from his knees.