"...With Desdemona?" Iago repeated confusedly. Roderigo's boyish voice, high with excitement and disgruntlement in turn, acted almost as a hook, forcibly dragging him from his dread imaginings and into the present once more...though he could be sure whether to be thankful for that or not...
As for the girl...God's sake, he had but glimpsed her this day; he had not spoken to her, nor had he come upon her in any state he would like to repeat. An image of his woe-begotten flowers, wilted and soiled atop the courtyard's wall, entered his mind unbidden, followed by the shocked, bemused fear in Desdemona's limpid doe eyes as she spoke, concerned, Emilia...though he knew not if the sight were true. He had not been present for it; in faith, he had not been wholly present for the duration of his discourse with his wife then, either...
...But Roderigo, here, was so earnest, so trusting of his assured knowledge of the girl's well-being...could he not see that his friend (ostensibly) wished not to answer him that, could not bear to speak? ...Of course he could not. Blind he was: by love, by youthful naivety, by sheer stupidity unrelated to that wrought by his love...
So. Persistent as he was, Roderigo demanded answer. Much as Iago might like to clout him upside the head for his foolishness, or else abandon him here altogether in lieu of his own misery (though perhaps he used that merely as an excuse to escape the pup)...it would not do. Heaven knew what Roderigo might do if he were denied news of his beloved.
"Last I saw her, she was well," he replied, hoping his voice gave away naught of his internal abuses. "No doubt she is with the Moor even now, enjoying the fruits of his love." There. Let the boy be satisfied or discouraged by that at will. He cared not for Roderigo's infantile infatuation.