She meant to go, too, but she lingered a while, knowing that if ever she
came back to Tragara, this would be the spot where she would pause and
recall a memory, and not that other, where she had sat while San Miniato
played out his wretched little comedy.
It all rushed across her mind again, bringing a new sense of disgust and
repulsion with it, and a new blush of shame and anger at having been so
deceived. There was no doubt now. The contrast had been too great, too
wide, too evident. It was the difference between truth and hearsay, as
San Miniato had said once that night. There was no mistaking the one for
the other.
Poor Ruggiero! that was why he was growing pale and thin. That was why
his arm trembled when he helped her into the boat. She leaned against
the rock and wondered what it all meant, whether there were really any
justice in heaven or any happiness on earth. But she would not marry
San Miniato, now, for she had given no promise. If she had done so, she
would not have broken it--in that, at least, she was like other girls of
her age and class. Next to evils of which she knew nothing, the breaking
of a promise of marriage was the greatest and most unpardonable of sins,
no matter what the circumstances might be.
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