That was what she was saying to herself. And she was comparing herself
now with other people, other women. Did she know one who could not
uproot an old memory, who could suffer, and desire, and internally
weep, after more than sixteen years?

"I suppose it is preposterous."

She deliberately chose that ugly word to describe her own condition of
soul. But instantly it seemed to her as if far down in that soul
something rose up and answered:

"No, it is not. It is beautiful. It is divine. It is more--it is due.
He gave you the greatest gift. He gave you what the whole world is
always seeking; even in blindness, even in ignorance, even in terrible
vice. He gave you love. How should you forget him?"

Far away on the sea that was faintly silvered by the moon there was a
black speck. It was, or seemed from the distance to be, motionless.
Hermione's eyes were attracted to it, and again her imagination
carried her to Sicily. She stood on the shore by the inlet, she saw
the boat coming in from the open sea. Then it stopped midway--like
that boat.

She heard Gaspare furiously weeping.

But the boat moved, and the sound that was in her imagination died
away, and she said to herself, "All that was long ago."

The boat out there was no doubt occupied by Neapolitan fishermen, and