"
Having got hold of that phrase, she clung to it as if for comfort.
"It's all so long ago," she repeated. "Years and years ago. We've
forgotten it. We've forgotten Sicily, Gaspare. Why should we think of
it or trouble about it any more? Good-night, Gaspare."
She smiled at him, but her face was drawn and looked old.
"Buona notte, Signora."
He did not smile, but gazed at her with earnest gentleness, and still
with that lustrous look in his eyes, full of tenderness and
protection.
"Buon riposo, Signora."
He went away, surely relieved to go. At the door he said again:
"Buon riposo."
The door was shut.
"Buon riposo!"
Hermione repeated the words to herself.
"Riposo!"
The very thought of repose was like the most bitter irony. She walked
up and down the room. To-night there was no stability in her. She was
shaken, lacerated mentally, by sharply changing moods that rushed
through her, one chasing another. Scarcely had Gaspare gone before she
longed to call him back, to force him to speak, to explain everything
to her.
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