Madame Bernard had been installed in the palace since the day of the fatal accident, and she was kindness personified, full of consideration and forethought; yet the girl was very lonely and miserable from morning till night, and when she slept she dreamed of the dead Knight of Malta's face, of the yellow light of the wax torches, and the voices of the priests.
On the fourth day a letter came from Giovanni, the first she had ever received from him.

She did not even know his handwriting, and she looked at the signature before reading the note to see who had written to her so soon.

When she understood that it was he, a flood of sunshine broke upon her gloom.

The bright morning sun had indeed been shining through the window for an hour, but she had not known it till then.
It was not a love-letter.

He used those grammatically illogical but superfinely courteous forms which make high Italian a mystery to strangers who pick up a few hundred words for daily use and dream that they understand the language.