[The trick, really, is not to fidget. She wants to; the impulse is always to fuss, to touch the ends of her hair or smooth invisible wrinkles out of her skirt, to find something and decide that it isn't quite perfect and then fixate on it to mentally undermine the whole image. It'd be easy to decide she doesn't know what to do with her hands, or get self-conscious about the angle of her shoulders, or to press her lips together to feel the color smoothed across them in perfect lines.
And the temptation to do any or all of those things, it all stems from the notion that this isn't right for her somehow, that she's playing dress-up or make-believe and pretending at something that she knows full well is a fantasy.
But Caesar's looking at her like he might fall over, and there's nothing feigned about that. It's entirely genuine, and that means she must be entirely genuine, too.
What an amazing feeling that is.
So her voice comes soft, but sweet, with a smile creeping at the artful corners of her pretty red mouth.]
...So di essere bella, quando si guarda a me in quel modo.
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And the temptation to do any or all of those things, it all stems from the notion that this isn't right for her somehow, that she's playing dress-up or make-believe and pretending at something that she knows full well is a fantasy.
But Caesar's looking at her like he might fall over, and there's nothing feigned about that. It's entirely genuine, and that means she must be entirely genuine, too.
What an amazing feeling that is.
So her voice comes soft, but sweet, with a smile creeping at the artful corners of her pretty red mouth.]
...So di essere bella, quando si guarda a me in quel modo.