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"Will you take me, Lazaro?" she repeated. "Holy Flower of the Quince!" was all that I could murmur, whereat she gently smiled. "Santo Fior di Cotogno!" And then a great sadness overwhelmed me. A tide that neaped the frail bark of happiness high and dry upon the shores of black despair. "To-morrow Madonna, comes the Lord Ignacio Borgia," I groaned. "I know, I know," said she.
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