"
"It doesn't matter, Signorina."
"Did you get back very late?"
"I don't know, Signora. I did not look at the hour."
She looked away from him and out to sea.
"I am very sorry," she repeated.
And he again said:
"It doesn't matter, Signorina."
It was nearly noon when they drew near to the island. The weather was
heavily hot, languidly hot even upon the water. There was a haze
hanging over the world in which distant objects appeared like
unsubstantial clouds, or dream things impregnated with a mystery that
was mournful. The voice of a fisherman singing not far off came to
them like the voice of Fate, issuing from the ocean to tell them of
the sadness that was the doom of men. Behind them Naples sank away
into the vaporous distance. Vesuvius was almost blotted out, Capri an
ethereal silhouette. And their little island, even when they
approached it, did not look like the solid land on which they had made
a home, but like the vague shell of some substance that had been
destroyed, leaving its former abiding-place untenanted.
Pages:
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736