Gianfrancesco ran from the room, tearing at his hair. Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind. She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the occasion. She made noises between weeping and laughter as she went. “He writes very well,” said Ann Veronica. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners.
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