A cat came and rubbed herself against him as he entered the house, and seemed by her mewing to ask him for food. ‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’ ‘She said she wouldn’t murder you. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. Now let us forget it. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think.
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