He
returned to the hotel towards sunset feeling weary and depressed,
companionless, too, in this gay summer world. Although he had never
been deeply attached to the Marchesino he had liked him, been amused
by him, grown accustomed to him. He missed the "Toledo incarnate." And
as he walked along the Marina he felt for a moment almost inclined to
go away from Naples. But the people of the island! Could he leave them
just now? Could he leave Hermione so near to the hands of Fate, those
hands which were surely stretched out towards her, which might grasp
her at any moment, even to-night, and alter her life forever? No, he
knew he could not.
"There is a note for Monsieur!"
He took it from the hall porter.
"No, I'll walk up-stairs."
He had seen the lift was not below, and did not wish to wait for its
descent. Vere's writing was on the envelope he held; but Vere's
writing distorted, frantic, tragic. He knew before he opened the
envelope that it must contain some dreadful statement or some wild
appeal; and he hurried to his room, almost feeling the pain and fear
of the writer burn through the paper to his hand.
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