“My dear Anna,” he answered. I never want you to be ashamed of me. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. The figure of the girl upon it in plain black dress, standing with her hands behind her, was an undeniable and astonishing likeness of herself. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression. She still had her letter of credit.
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