The atmosphere of the room felt close;
Agnes threw a shawl over her head and shoulders, and, opening the window,
stepped into the balcony to look at the view.
The night was heavy and overcast: nothing could be distinctly seen.
The canal beneath the window looked like a black gulf;
the opposite houses were barely visible as a row of shadows,
dimly relieved against the starless and moonless sky.
At long intervals, the warning cry of a belated gondolier was
just audible, as he turned the corner of a distant canal, and called
to invisible boats which might be approaching him in the darkness.
Now and then, the nearer dip of an oar in the water told of the viewless
passage of other gondolas bringing guests back to the hotel.
Excepting these rare sounds, the mysterious night-silence of Venice was
literally the silence of the grave.
Leaning on the parapet of the balcony, Agnes looked vacantly into
the black void beneath. Her thoughts reverted to the miserable man
who had broken his pledged faith to her, and who had died in that house.
Some change seemed to have come over her since her arrival in Venice;
some new influence appeared to be at work.
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