At this time, though he was attending Ferri's lectures, Anania still believed in free-will. He sometimes committed small crimes just to prove to himself that he had willed to commit them. This time, however, he let the ant alone. It vanished under a book ignorant of the danger it had escaped. As often before, he tore up part of his letter. Then he leaned his forehead on his hands and reread the remainder, a wave of bitterness overflowing his heart. "Yes," he thought, "I am too near the stars; I don't see the abyss into which I must ineluctably fall. Why do I continue to deceive myself? It's my mother she may be, and Battista Daga visits her because she is still--But why has he never spoken of her? After all, why should he speak? He has not confided his adventures to me. He comes here--because--Oh God! Oh God! I am the son of Maria Obinu! She knows my whole life. She told the old _jana_ in her own way that I have been adopted by a rich Signore. Has she left other children in Sardinia? No, that part must be a lie--she went away at once after deserting me. She said that as a blind. Oh God!" Presently he sprang to his feet. "I must find out," he thought, "I must know. Why this burning lamp, these pictures, these prayers,--if it's not for that reason. But I will unmask you, lost soul! I will kill you, chase you away, because you are my curse! because you will be the curse of that pure noble creature. Oh my poor, poor Margherita!" He struck his fist violently on the letter, while his eyes flamed with hatred. Then again he sank on his chair, and dropped his head on the table. He wished he could burst his head, think no more! forget! annihilate himself! He felt vile, black and viscid as a lump of mud. He felt himself flesh of the solid flesh of his mother, himself a sinner, miserable, abject. Tumultuous recollections passed through his mind. He remembered the generous ideas so often caressed, the dream of finding and rescuing her, the infinite pity for her ignorance and irresponsibility; the pride with which he had regarded his own compassion--the thirst for sacrifice. It had all been self-deception. A vague hint given by a childish old woman had sufficed to turn his soul to mud, to rack it with storm, to impel it towards crime. "I will kill her." Yes, those words were already a crime.