She broke the seal and read the letter
eagerly.
It was like most of his letters at first, being full of matters about
which he had talked with her, and written in the graceful way which was
especially his and which had so much charm for her. But towards the end
his courage must have failed him a little, for there were sad words and
one or two phrases that had in them something touching and tender to
which she was not accustomed. He did not tell her that he was ill and
that he feared lest he might never see her again, for he was far too
careful as yet of hinting at the truth she would not understand. They
were very little things that told her of his sadness--an unfinished
sentence ending in a dash, the fall of half a dozen harmonious words
that were like a beautiful verse and vaguely reminded her of Leopardi's
poetry--small touches here and there which had either never slipped from
his pen before, or which she had never noticed.
They pleased her. She would not have been a human woman if she had not
been a little glad to be missed for herself, even though the writing was
to continue. She read the last part of the letter over three times, the
rest only twice, and then she laid it in an empty drawer of her table,
rather tenderly, to be the first of many. That should be Gianluca's
especial place.
Amidst her first arrangements for her own comfort, she did not forget
what she looked upon as her chief work, and before that day was over she
had begun what was to be a systematic improvement of Muro.
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