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Updated: April 30, 2025
It was not Youghal's lack of political sagacity that had brought the momentary look of disapproval into Francesca's face.
Now I am quite aware that my conduct in this respect was wrong. I was too young, and my prospects were far too vague at that time, to justify me in speaking of love to any woman, besides which, in so unceremoniously laying siege to the beautiful Francesca's susceptible heart, I might, for all that I could tell, be seriously interfering with the count's plans for his daughter's future.
"Hi, Oliver! Fun. Francesca's a good buddy." "Did you tell her about me?" "Why no. You're my secret, Sweet; I'm keeping you to myself. Besides, Francesca's beautiful. Men go gaga over her. She's one of these tall, dark, silent types. Gorgeous eyes, inner fires. I'd go for her myself if I weren't so friggin straight." "Hallelujah!" Oliver said with feeling. "Thank you," she said.
Francesca's waist measure is three inches smaller than mine." "Could you manage my black lace dress?" "Penelope, you know it would only reach to my ankles! No, you must go without me, and go at once. We are too new acquaintances to keep Lady Killbally's dinner waiting.
The park was filling again with its floating population of loiterers, and Francesca's footsteps began to take a homeward direction. Something seemed to tell her that the message for which she waited had arrived and was lying there on the hall table.
"Aunt Francesca's husband," answered Rose, with a little catch in her voice, "and my uncle. He died in the War." "Oh," said Isabel, unmoved. "He was nice looking, wasn't he? Shall we take this to Aunt Francesca?" "You forget that it isn't ours to take," Rose reminded her. "And, by the way, Isabel, you must never speak to Aunt Francesca of her husband. She cannot bear it."
Here in the Uffizi, however, we have a Madonna and four Saints from his hand, formerly in the Church of S. Lucia de' Magnoli in the Via de' Bardi. It is a very splendid work, and certainly his masterpiece; something of Piero della Francesca's later work may perhaps be discerned there, in a certain force and energy, a sort of dry sweetness in the faint colouring that he seems to have loved.
What Francesca and I wore to the Castle dinner is, alas! no longer of any consequence to the community at large. In the mysterious purposes of that third volume which we seem to be living in Ireland, Francesca's beauty and mine, her hats and frocks as well as mine, are all reduced to the background; but Salemina's toilet had cost us some thought.
She was happier now than she had ever been before in her life, but she must hide her joy from the others as she had previously hidden her pain or tried to. She knew that Isabel would not see, but Aunt Francesca's eyes were keen and she could not tell even her just now. How strange it would be to wake in the night, without that dull, dead pain!
"I don't think I've heard of her. Who is she?" "Nobody in particular, but rather nice-looking in a solemn sort of way, and almost indecently rich." "Marry her" was the advice which sprang to Francesca's lips, but she choked it back with a salted almond, having a rare perception of the fact that words are sometimes given to us to defeat our purposes.
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