Life consists of these little touches of solitude.
As is always the case, the rejection was mutual.
It was immediately clear that our efforts would not be sufficient.
We diligently totted up those so obviously suspicious but formally blameless results.
They beat us up a bit, warned us not to do anything ill-advised.
Our resistance at the time was passive and limited to rejection, isolation, and avoiding contamination.
She spoke in a veiled, distracted voice, as if she were definitely tired of living.
If I am not mistaken we were all writing poetry, except for Ettore, who said it was undignified for an engineer.
She forbade herself marriage in a refined and merciless manner, that is, by getting married.
Bortolasso performed with extreme negligence the job of gardener.
We must be more astute.
But there is trouble in store for anyone who surrenders to the temptation of mistaking an elegant hypothesis for a certainty.
Tests on a small scale gave promising results.
Quantitative analysis, so devoid of emotion, heavy as granite, came alive, true, useful.
She watched my neophyte’s enthusiasms without sharing them.
And yet this story does not end here.