The next morning came a compact letter from her father. The swellings appeared under her arms and a general panic spread through the Palazzo. The one nearest to her, which must lead to the library. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself.
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