She ran and ran, in and out, among the white sheets and tablecloths, under the oblique, pale golden rays of the sun.

Already the shadow of the Cathedral seemed to envelop her, and she was on the point of entering her own garden by the little gate which separated it from the Clos, without having once glanced behind her.

But on the threshold she turned quickly, as if seized with a kind impulse, not wishing that he should think she was angry, and confused, but smiling, she called out: "Thank you.

Thank you very much." Did she wish to say that she was grateful to him for having helped her in recovering the linen?
Or was it for something else?
She disappeared, and the gate was shut after her.
And he remained alone in the middle of the field, under the great regular gusts, which continued to rage, although the sky was still clear and pure.

The elms in the Bishop's garden rustled with a long, billowy sound, and a loud voice seemed to clamour through the terraces and the flying buttresses of the Cathedral.