32 The curtains and tapestries had appeared over the windows before Marina had died, growing moldy from the dampness and the oils of lavender, clove, and clary sage soaking them. “You must not think of me as one. I’ll mention it. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. Love is one thing and friendship quite another. "What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked. News was sent back home, and in October, Marina traveled to Florence to live with her daughter again. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony.
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