Even in her hatred, she began to realize that Sebastian’s intelligence was much greater than Gianfrancesco’s. “After all,” he said, “I am not sure that you are not a very material person. But I will go. Something tells me I am rushing on greater danger. He tried this sentence with expletives. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. She realized that he was the sort of man one does not think much about at dinners. The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way. We had such a pride in you, such hope in you. My wife—killed me. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable. Marry me.
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