"Good-bye, then."
"Good-bye."
She stood in the middle of the room, a small red spot burning in each of her cheeks, and watched him go out, heard him descend the staircase, slowly, with the heavy step of one bearing a great burden. She leaned from the window and saw the shadow of a man issue from the door of the inn—it was Giustino. He stood still for a moment, and then turned into the high road that leads to Pompeii from Torre Annunziata, and again stood still, as if to wait for somebody there. Anna saw him turn towards the windows of the hotel, and gaze up at them earnestly. At last he moved slowly away and disappeared.
Anna came back into the room, and threw herself upon the sofa, biting its cushions to keep herself from screaming. Her head was on fire, but she couldn't weep—not a tear, not a single tear.
And in the midst of her trouble, constantly—whether, as at one moment, she was pitying herself as a poor child to whom a monstrous wrong had been done, or as, at the next, burning with scorn as a great lady offended in her pride; or again, blushing with shame as she thought of the imminent arrival of Cesare Dias—in the midst of it all, through it all, constantly, one little agonising, implacable phrase kept repeating itself: "All is over, all is over, all is over!"
Presently a servant brought in a light.
"Please, madam, do you mean to stay the night?" he asked.
"No."
"The last train for Naples has already left. You can go back by way of Torre Annunziata in a carriage."
"Some one is coming for me," she said.