When her maid had gone out to buy the crape, she knelt down and said prayers that were not in the book, very earnestly and simply; and now and then her tears flowed afresh for a little while.

She took the artificial gardenia and put it away in a safe place, after she had kissed it; and she wondered when she remembered how she had blushed last night when Bosio kissed her that once--that only once that ever was to be.

And she took his photograph and looked at it, too.

But she could not bear that yet--at least, not to look at it too closely.
Vaguely she tried to think what the others might be doing in the house, and why no one came to her but her maid.

It seemed to her that she was always to be alone, now, for days, for weeks, for years.