He seemed quite unconscious of the tears he had shed, and too much shaken to take leave with any formality.

Bosio stood quite still, when he had risen too, and his face was white.

The old man passed him without a word, going to the door.
"My poor son! my poor Gianluca!" he repeated to himself, as Gregorio Macomer accompanied him.
Matilde and Bosio were left alone for a moment, but they knew that the count would return at once.

They stood still, looking each at the other, with very different expressions.
Bosio felt that, in his place, a strong, brave man would have done something, would have stood up to deny the engagement, perhaps, or would have left the room rather than accept the situation in submissive silence, protesting in some way, though only Matilde should have understood the protest.

She, on her side, slowly nodded her approval of his conduct, and in her dark eyes there was a yellow reflexion from the predominating colour of the room; there was triumph and satisfaction, and there was the threat of the woman who dominates the man and is sure of doing with him as she pleases.