Mr. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. ‘I might have killed you,’ she snapped, ‘if only you did not say anything. “You were there, were you?” He laughed a little impatiently. At this juncture, the door was opened by Rachel. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. This done, Edgeworth Bess, who watched her opportunity, slipped out of the Lodge. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. He's going to ask you to Prom.
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