I elicited from my servant that two old ladies and an old gentleman
had in fact rallied round Miss Tita and had supported her
(they had come for her in a gondola of their own) during the
journey to the cemetery, the little red-walled island of tombs
which lies to the north of the town, on the way to Murano.
It appeared from these circumstances that the Misses Bordereau
were Catholics, a discovery I had never made, as the old woman
could not go to church and her niece, so far as I perceived,
either did not or went only to early mass in the parish,
before I was stirring. Certainly even the priests respected
their seclusion; I had never caught the whisk of the curato's skirt.
That evening, an hour later, I sent my servant down with five
words written on a card, to ask Miss Tita if she would see me
for a few moments. She was not in the house, where he had
sought her, he told me when he came back, but in the garden
walking about to refresh herself and gathering flowers.
He had found her there and she would be very happy to see me.
I went down and passed half an hour with poor Miss Tita.
She had always had a look of musty mourning (as if she
were wearing out old robes of sorrow that would not come
to an end), and in this respect there was no appreciable
change in her appearance. But she evidently had been crying,
crying a great deal--simply, satisfyingly, refreshingly, with a
sort of primitive, retarded sense of loneliness and violence.
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