The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. I hope I haven't given any unintentional offence?" said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood. . She simply refuses to see or hear from me again. Dear me, what a difference it has made! No one would ever think that we were sisters. He had said so.
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