He patted the hand on his sleeve. Still keeping ahead of his pursuers, he ran along the direct road, till the houses disappeared and he got into the open country. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. The coffin was lowered into the grave, and the mourners departed. Something changed for her. Gianfrancesco took her that night gently, for which she was glad. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. Of course Nicholas was bound to give her a French name. There were no mourners.
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