She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. “She’s sensitive soul, far too sensitive to be married to an ass like Gianfrancesco. 1. I suppose this is what she learns in her infernal London colleges.
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