"One night, when Gennaro returned from his work, he brought a
fellow-countryman back with him. His name was Gorgiano, and he
had come also from Posilippo. He was a huge man, as you can
testify, for you have looked upon his corpse. Not only was his
body that of a giant but everything about him was grotesque,
gigantic, and terrifying. His voice was like thunder in our
little house. There was scarce room for the whirl of his great
arms as he talked. His thoughts, his emotions, his passions, all
were exaggerated and monstrous. He talked, or rather roared,
with such energy that others could but sit and listen, cowed with
the mighty stream of words. His eyes blazed at you and held you
at his mercy. He was a terrible and wonderful man. I thank God
that he is dead!
"He came again and again. Yet I was aware that Gennaro was no
more happy than I was in his presence. My poor husband would sit
pale and listless, listening to the endless raving upon politics
and upon social questions which made up or visitor's
conversation. Gennaro said nothing, but I, who knew him so well,
could read in his face some emotion which I had never seen there
before. At first I thought that it was dislike. And then,
gradually, I understood that it was more than dislike. It was
fear--a deep, secret, shrinking fear. That night--the night that
I read his terror--I put my arms round him and I implored him by
his love for me and by all that he held dear to hold nothing from
me, and to tell me why this huge man overshadowed him so.
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