Her tears broke out again, for it had meant so much last night, and could mean now but the memory of that much, and never again anything more.

It was a long time before Veronica dried her eyes, and consented to dress.
Apart from the sorrowful horror that filled her, it seemed so very strange that he should have killed himself just after she had promised to marry him, within an hour after they had spoken together of the happiness to come.
"It was an accident," she said at last, speaking to herself, as though she had reached a conclusion.

"He did not mean to do it." Elettra shook her head, but said nothing.

Accident, or no accident, it was the blood of a Macomer for the blood of her own dead husband, murdered up there in Muro by the peasants because Macomer had burdened them beyond their power to pay.
She said nothing, and Veronica expected no answer, but sat still, trying to think, while Elettra noiselessly set the big dressing-room in order.
The woman had given her a black frock without consulting her.
Though Veronica liked her, and knew that she could rely on her devotion, she was not one of those Italian girls who readily confide in their serving-women, and she had told Elettra nothing about the projected marriage, and she said nothing of it now, though she was mourning her betrothed husband.

But she told Elettra to go out and buy a little crape to put on the black frock, and to send for dressmakers to make mourning things quickly.
The confusion in the house had subsided into stillness.