She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. If you met her you would, I am certain, think her as fine as I do. It’s a lake among precipices, and there is a little inn where we can stay, and sit and eat our dinner at a pleasant table that looks upon the lake. But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She recoiled.
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