She would not even admit that there might have been some little foundation for it in the past.
Instinctively driving away the thought, she began to say certain prayers for the poor man, and little by little, repeating the words often, her mind grew calm, and she fell asleep once more.

Yet in her sleep the needle of doubt ran through the little bits of memories, one by one, threading them in one continuous string.

There was Bianca Corleone's look of blank surprise when Veronica had first spoken of a possible marriage with Bosio, and there was Taquisara's bold assertion, tallying with the priest's, that the Macomer wanted her fortune, and there was very vividly before her the gnawing anxiety she had seen in Matilde's face until the latter had caught sight of the artificial flower on that memorable evening.

And the string on which the beads of memory were threaded was her long-repressed but profound distrust of Gregorio Macomer.

It had seemed a wicked prejudice, a gratuitously false judgment, based upon something in his face, and she had always fought against it as unworthy, besides being irrational.