The mass of heavy mist grows lighter, and the arms of
the oak towering on the right show black against it. The tiny, frequent
drops continue to tickle her outstretched hand, which she finally
withdraws. Jeanne questions.
"Well?" "It is raining."
She sighs "What a bother," as if it were going to rain for ever. And the
tiny drops acquire a louder voice, fill the room with soft murmurs, and
then are hushed once more. Jeanne does not understand the soft murmurs,
does not understand that the man of whom her heart is full is lying
unconscious, on the lonely, rocky, hillside, down which the rain washes.
Late on the following morning Signora Selva, somewhat anxious because
neither of her guests had as yet appeared, entered her sister's room
quietly. Noemi was nearly dressed, and signed to her to be silent.
Jeanne had fallen asleep at last. The two sisters left the room together
and went to the study where Giovanni was waiting for them. Well? Was Don
Clemente really the man? The husband and wife were anxious to know in
order to regulate their conduct accordingly.
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