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She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time. I spend many delightful hours thinking of the pleasant and beautiful things of life. Seventeen hours, sixteen hours. He was also aware that all his arguments would shatter themselves against her resolutions. But it was not adieu, so she promised her old nurse.
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