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“No. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. She ran away after she had divined that Gianfrancesco had remarried. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. She had dreaded the beginning of this hour. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. ’ ‘Must we talk of it? I’m trying to forget it. Shoving between them, she confronted the captain herself. God had never answered any of her prayers. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone.
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