The face is indistinct, but in the apparel of mourning I can see the neck-opening, like a faint pale heart, and the misty expansion of the skirt.

Stooping, I hear her low voice, "I've come, you see." And, "Marie!" I say.
I sit down beside her, and we remain silent.

She is there--wholly.
Through her black veils I can make out the whiteness of her face and neck and hands--all her beauty, like light enclosed.
For me she had only been a charming picture, a passer-by, one apart, living her own life.

Now she has listened to me; she has come at my call; she has brought herself here.
* * * * * * The day has been scorching.

Towards the end of the afternoon storm-rain burst over the world and then ceased.