So she stopped on alone for her dark hour in Perugia. She stopped
on, untended by any save unknown Italians whose tongue she hardly
spoke, and uncheered by a friendly voice at the deepest moment of
trouble in a woman's history. Often for hours together she sat
alone in the cathedral, gazing up at a certain mild-featured
Madonna, enshrined above an altar. The unwedded widow seemed to
gain some comfort from the pitying face of the maiden mother.
Every day, while still she could, she walked out along the
shadeless suburban road to Alan's grave in the parched and crowded
cemetery. Women trudging along with crammed creels on their backs
turned round to stare at her. When she could no longer walk, she
sat at her window towards San Luca and gazed at it. There lay the
only friend she possessed in Perugia, perhaps in the universe.
The dreaded day arrived at last, and her strong constitution
enabled Herminia to live through it. Her baby was born, a
beautiful little girl, soft, delicate, wonderful, with Alan's blue
eyes, and its mother's complexion.
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