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. Wasn’t easy, I can tell you. " "How did he take it?" "He did not seem to care. Go easy. Suddenly she thrust her head out of the window. ” “Point taken. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. Even in the daylight, it had a sombre and suspicious air, and seemed to slink back from the adjoining houses, as if afraid of their society. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity.
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