The middle of her forehead, which
was left free, gleamed, by contrast, in moonlike purity. Her features
had fined down and lost something of their materiality through stress of
love and sorrow.
She wound the veil about the stems of the roses, tied the two ends
together with much care, and then buried her face in the flowers,
inhaling their perfume. Then she laid them on the simple stone that
bears the poet's name engraved upon it. There was an indefinable
expression in the gesture, which Andrea could not understand.
As they moved away, he suddenly stopped short, and looking back towards
the tower, 'How did you manage to get those roses?' he asked.
She smiled, but her eyes were wet.
'They are yours--those of that snowy night--they have bloomed again this
evening. Do you not believe it?'
The evening breeze was rising, and behind the hill the sky was
overspread with gold, in the midst of which the purple cloud dissolved,
as if consumed by fire. Against this field of light, the serried ranks
of the cypresses looked more imposing and mysterious than before. The
Psyche at the end of the middle avenue seemed to flush with pale tints
as of flesh. A crescent moon rose over the pyramid of Cestius, in a deep
and glassy sky, like the waters of a calm and sheltered bay.
They went through the centre avenue to the gates.
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