Zorzi had not left the glass-house since he had been hurt, but he foresaw that he might be obliged to leave the laboratory for an hour or more, now that he was better.

He could walk, with one crutch and a stick, resting a little on the injured foot, and he felt sure that in a few days he should be able to walk with the stick alone.

He had the certainty that he was lame for life, and now and then, when it was dusk and he sat under the plane-tree, meditating upon the uncertain future, he felt a keen pang at the thought that he might never again walk without limping; for he had been light and agile, and very swift of foot as a boy.
He fancied that Marietta would pity him, but not as she had pitied him at first.

There would be a little feeling of repulsion for the cripple, mixed with her compassion for the man.

It was true that, as matters were going now, he might not see her often again, and he was quite sure that he had no right to think of loving her.