Between her present, too, and the night of Bosio's death, had come the
attempt upon her own life, and all the sudden change that had followed
the catastrophe. She was too brave to realize, even now, that she might
have died at Matilde's hands. She had to go over the facts to make
herself believe that she had been almost killed. But the whole affair
had brought a revolution into her life, since Bosio had been gone.
Another companionship had taken the place of his, so that she hardly
missed him now. She would miss Gianluca's letters far more than Bosio,
if they should suddenly stop, and the mere thought that the
correspondence might be broken off gave her a sharp little pain. The
idea crossed her mind while she was arranging her writing-table near her
favourite window, for all writing seemed to be connected with Gianluca,
so that she could not imagine passing more than a day or two without
setting down something on paper which he was to read, and to answer. To
lose that close intimacy of thought would be to lose much.
But Gianluca had written on the morning of her departure, and before
Veronica had half finished what she was doing, one of her women brought
her his letter, for the post came in at about midday. It came alone, for
Bianca had not written yet, and Veronica's correspondence was not large.
She had not even thought of ordering a newspaper to be sent to her. Her
work and occupation were to be in Muro, and she cared very little about
what might happen anywhere else.
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