Sister Annunziata went about calmly, with that strange new light of happiness in her face. She was loved at last. Saint Francis had sent her the sign.
ON THE morning following Mr. Winnery's extraordinary attack of romanticism he awakened slowly and lay abed for a long time after the goitered Maria, maidservant of twenty years, had come in and flung open the shutters. He awakened conscious that he was feeling exceedingly well and freed of the usual torpor caused by the combination of a bad liver and the wretched climate of Brinoë. He was aware that the wind from Africa had died out altogether and that in its place there was a cool fresh breeze that changed the brilliant sun and blue sky from a nightmare into a delight. It was odd, he thought, how well he felt, considering that he had been up walking the streets on the night before until after midnight. It occurred to him that perhaps you could break habits without inviting calamities. Perhaps breaking habits made life more exciting. It was a thing he had never tried before—this exciting way of living.
And then his eye fell upon the telegram, and he suddenly felt even happier. He remembered that now he could leave Brinoë forever. He would not have to be buried in the Protestant cemetery, among all the people who had bored him for twenty years. He would not have to rest through all eternity
