A nun is crying very hard, near hiccuping, because outside where it is brighter, they are carrying her son in a coffin and she just threw flowers down on him, they fell surprisingly fast, flowers she borrowed from the feet of a stone Mary and she then apologized to Mary. It's the end of a film. The word that tells us so comes from the depth of the frame, glowering just before her, terminal, and growing in size. But the closer it gets to the surface, the further it gets from having any excuse to participate in that depth, any more than the names that spelled out who spent money and picked out costumes could touch the stone quarry they obscured. And yet the more the word swells, the more it does interfere and cast, the more it glows, making those tears flare and shine, hot as radiation.
But this is not an ending, after all. It is merely a halfway point, three years before it is picked up again, in 1955. Then the story opens up once more, to burn a whole lot faster and stranger this time, doubling her into a desired knockoff played by herself and impregnated by the same man, three years before Hitchcock will do so. Building its pitch to the shriek of ending high above another courtyard where this time this nun will try to stop a women's prison riot by appealing to every mother everywhere ever.
That same year, another ending, another opening, further west, by the water.
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