She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. It's a thousand pities to hang so pretty a fellow. ‘But with more courage in her little finger than in many another female’s entire body. "Take me, then," replied the widow. It is not every sort of creature needs—these males.
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