She spent these days in bed, she slept, she dreamed, woke again and could not shake off the sense of expectation. Now and then she had a slight fever and it was better to stay in bed. Mostly he stayed with her. But once when Duco had gone off to get something from the pharmacy, there was a knock at the door. She jumped up in bed, afraid, afraid to see him, the one she was constantly thinking of … Half faint with alarm, she opened the door a fraction. But it was the postman with a registered letter. From him! Even more brusquely than the last time, he wrote that immediately on receipt of his letter, she must send a telegram telling him the date she was arriving. And that if by such and such a day — he would work out which — he did not receive her telegram, he would take the night train to Florence and would shoot her lover like a dog at her feet. That he would not hesitate for a moment. That he did not give a damn about the consequences. The passion and rage that this short letter exuded struck her in the face like a red storm. She knew him and knew that he would do it. As in a flash she saw the dreadful scene, saw the murdered Duco fall, bathed in blood. And she was no longer in control of herself. At a distance, because of the red rage of that letter, she had become completely his object, his thing. She had hurriedly torn the letter open, even before she had signed the postman’s book. The man was waiting in the hall. It flashed through at dizzying speed, it swirled before her like a whirlpool. If she hesitated another moment, it would be too late, too late for Duco … And she asked the postman, nervously,