She had always been kind to him, but henceforth there would be something even kinder in her voice when she spoke to him, as there would be something harder in her tone when she talked with San Miniato.
And now her mother had appeared and settled herself in her lazy way upon her long chair, and slowly moved her fan, from habit, though too indolent to lift it to her face.

Beatrice rose and kissed her lightly on the forehead.
"Good morning, mamma carissima," she said.

"Are you very tired after the excursion ?" "Exhausted, in mind and body, my angel.

A cigarette, my dear--it will give me an appetite." Beatrice brought her one, and held a match for her mother.

Then the Marchesa shut her eyes, inhaled the smoke and blew out four or five puffs before speaking again.
"I want to speak to you, my child," she said at last, "but I hardly have the strength." "Do not tire yourself, mamma.