“I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table. Above her head was an aura of white fire. She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. “Anna,” he pleaded, “be merciful. But the factor of overriding interest is that they have all met and approved the said imposters. Manning loved her presented itself to her bloodlessly, stilled from any imaginative quiver or thrill of passion or disgust. She shut her lips hard, her jaw hardened, and she set herself to struggle with him. It is I who took the burden of your misdeeds upon my shoulders that you might become Lady Ferringhall.
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