Floriana played with Good-Night and draped the cat over her arms as she carried him with her everywhere. Michelangelo was too arrogant to show his growing affection for the little girl who stroked his tummy, and followed them at a distance, pretending not to care. The days rolled on in a blissful haze. Floriana stopped minding about her father’s drunken evenings at Luigi’s, and when she wasn’t at La Magdalena she played with Costanza at her house, beneath the disapproving gaze of the countess. “Do you have to take Floriana with you every time you go to the Bonfantis’?” she asked her daughter one evening after Floriana had gone home. “Why?” “Because, my love, she’s not of your class. It’s inappropriate. It’s very kind of them to tolerate her but . . .” “If I don’t take her, I’ll have no one to play with.” “What about the younger daughter? What’s she called?” “Giovanna. But she’s in Mexico. I don’t think she’s coming at all this summer.” “All right, then.
