The clock of the Trinita-de-Monti sounded the Angelus. Rome appeared, similar to an immense, grayish, formless cloud touching the earth. Already, in the neighboring houses, several windows were lit up, their lights enlarged by the fog. A few drops of rain were falling.
"You'll come to me to-night, won't you?" asked George.
"Yes, yes, I will come."
"Early?"
"About eleven."
"I should die if you did not come."
"I will come."
They gazed in each other's eyes, exchanging an intoxicating promise.
Overcome by his emotion, George murmured: "Am I forgiven?"
They looked at each other again, and their gaze was charged with caresses.