She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. “I was in Paris four years ago,” Mr. There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain. “I am getting plain,” she said, with a little shudder. Her sleepless night had left her languid but not stupefied, and for an hour or so the work distracted her altogether from her troubles. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine.
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