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"Will she die?" the marchesa asked again. "Who can tell? She is in the hands of God." As he spoke, Trenta shot an angry scowl at his friend he knew her so well. If Enrica died the Guinigi race was doomed that made her tremble, not affection for Enrica. A word more from the marchesa, and Trenta would have told her this to her face.
"Marescotti declares," continued the cavaliere, "that even now Rome is still in bondage, and sunk in superstition. He calls it superstition. He would like to shut up all the churches. He believes in nothing but poetry and Red republicans. Any kind of Christian belief he calls superstition." "Marescotti is quite right," said the marchesa, angrily; she was determined to contradict the cavaliere.
"Remember that Count Nobili and Fra Pacifico have been waiting for some hours." "Let Nobili wait," answered the marchesa, a sudden glare darting into her dark eyes; "he is born to wait for such as I."
The count turned to one of them, and whispered; in an instant the marchesa was seized and gagged. The count cast a look over his shoulder; Violante was close behind, supported by the man to whom Peschiera had consigned her, and who was pointing to Beatrice, and appeared warning Violante against resistance. Violante was silent, and seemed resigned.
"That was a principal reason," replied the cavaliere, in a faltering voice; "but there were others." "What are the others to me? The dishonor of my niece is sufficient." There was a desperate composure about the marchesa, more terrible than passion. "Her dishonor! God and all the saints forbid!" retorted Trenta, clasping his hands. "Marescotti did not speak of dishonor."
Then, replacing his hat on his head, he added to his friend: "The Marchesa is always hoping that the Duchessa d'Aosta will come one day, if only for a moment, to smile upon the geese. But well, the Duchessa prefers to climb to the fourth story to see the poor. She has a heart. Let us sit here, Emilio."
Modern history offers only the illustrious instance of the Marchesa di Pescara and her husband. Destined to marry by their parents from their earliest years, they adored each other and were married, and their union gave to the sixteenth century the noble spectacle of a perfect conjugal love without a flaw.
The Marchesa cared very little about the library, or about the house, for that matter; a great aunt and uncle, spinster and bachelor, were living in it that winter, and they vacated for Mr. Crewe.
Nina turned helplessly toward the Princess Malio, but found in her a new inquisitor: "American fathers are proverbially generous" her ingratiating smile so ill suited her features that it seemed almost not to belong to her "of course your dot will be colossal?" Again Nina gasped, but before she was obliged to answer the Marchesa Valdeste laid her hand upon her arm.
Filippo's eyes strayed towards her now and then. Edna came presently to where Olive rested apart on the wide cushioned window-seat. "Will you have some more tea?" "No, thank you. I think we must be going soon. The Marchesa will not like it if we stay out too long." Edna hesitated. "I wanted to ask you a silly question. Had you ever seen the Prince before last week?"
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