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Updated: May 20, 2025
In the dark of her beautiful black hair there was the green luster of emeralds; an Indian-princess necklace of emeralds and pearls was looped around her dazzling white throat. Unconsciously Courtlandt sighed audibly, and Mrs. Harrigan heard this note of unrest. "Who is that?" asked Mrs. Harrigan. "Flora Desimone's husband, the duke. He and Mr.
The more he learned about women the farther out of mental reach they seemed to go. Why on earth did she want this execrable daub? "You may have it; but all the same, I'm going to call an oculist and have him examine your eyes." "Why, it is the Signorina Fournier!" In preparing studiously to ignore Flora Desimone's presence they had forgotten all about her.
The frank discussion, then, and the calm dismissal were but a woman's dissimulation. And he had gone to Flora Desimone's. The carriage stopped before a handsome apartment-house in the Avenue de Wagram. The unknown got out, gave the driver his fare, and rang the concierge's bell.
From the window came "Sai cos' ebbe cuore!" sung as only Nora could sing it. The ferrule of Flora Desimone's parasol bit deeply into the clover-turf. "Do you know the Duchessa?" asked Flora Desimone. "Yes." It was three o'clock the same afternoon. The duke sat with his wife under the vine-clad trattoria on the quay. Between his knees he held his Panama hat, which was filled with ripe hazelnuts.
Nora's mind was Celtic: French in its adroitness and Irish in its watchfulness and tenacity. Checkmate! "I should like to help you," she said, truthfully. "In what way?" It was useless, but she continued: "She does not know that you went to Flora Desimone's that night." "And yet she sent you to watch me." "But so many things happened afterward that she evidently forgot." "That is possible."
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