George, who disliked any darkness, said: "It's clear
that she knew. Then, why did she risk the meeting? She knew he
was there, and yet she went to church."
They tried to piece the thing together.
As they talked, an incredible solution came into Lucy's mind. She
rejected it, and said: "How like Charlotte to undo her work by a
feeble muddle at the last moment." But something in the dying
evening, in the roar of the river, in their very embrace warned
them that her words fell short of life, and George whispered: "Or
did she mean it?"
"Mean what?"
"Signorino, domani faremo uno giro--"
Lucy bent forward and said with gentleness: "Lascia, prego,
lascia. Siamo sposati."
"Scusi tanto, signora," he replied in tones as gentle and
whipped up his horse.
"Buona sera--e grazie."
"Niente."
The cabman drove away singing.
"Mean what, George?"
He whispered: "Is it this? Is this possible? I'll put a marvel to
you. That your cousin has always hoped. That from the very first
moment we met, she hoped, far down in her mind, that we should be
like this--of course, very far down.
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