“You will be so late. ’ ‘Don’t be too sure,’ said Miss Froxfield darkly, with a mischievous glance at her betrothed. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. Not MY affair.
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