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Updated: June 17, 2025
Ginevra's dress of deep crimson relieved well her light curls, and harmonized with her rose-like bloom.
Ginevra's eyes too had filled with wonder; she cast them down, and a strange smile began to play about her sweet strong mouth. All at once she was in the middle of a fairy tale, and had not a notion what was coming next. Her dumb shepherd boy a baronet! and, more wonderful still, a Galbraith! She must be dreaming in the wide street!
Ginevra's whole heart belonged to her father, as Piombo's whole heart belonged to his child; and if it be true that we are bound to one another more by our defects than by our virtues, Ginevra echoed in a marvellous manner the passions of her father. There lay the sole imperfection of this triple life. Ginevra was born unyielding of will, vindictive, and passionate, like her father in his youth.
Ginevra's face was rosy red, but it was now dusk, and the fire-light had friendly retainer-shadows about it. "He is not my cousin," she answered. "Why, Ginevra! you told me he was your cousin," said Miss Kimble, with keen moral reproach. "I beg your pardon; I never did," said Ginevra. "I must see your father instantly," cried Miss Kimble, rising in anger.
Though Ginevra was sincerely loved by several of these royalists, nearly all of whom were indoctrinated at home with their political ideas, they decided, with the tactics peculiar to women, that they should do best to keep themselves aloof from the quarrel. On Ginevra's arrival she was received, as we have said, in profound silence.
The eyes of the young men went wandering over the crowd, looking for any of their few acquaintances, but below they mostly fell of course on the backs of heads. There was, however, no mistaking either Ginevra's bonnet or the occiput perched like a capital on the long neck of her father. They sat a good way in front, about the middle of the great church.
For an instant her husband's countenance became so terrible that she trembled at having used this simple means to bring about a mention of Ginevra's name. The night was wintry; the north wind drove the snowflakes so sharply against the blinds that the old couple fancied that they heard a gentle rustling. Ginevra's mother dropped her head to hide her tears.
"What, a dear personage!" cried I, and commended Ginevra's taste warmly; and asked her what she thought de Hamal might have done with the precious fragments of that heart she had broken whether he kept them in a scent-vial, and conserved them in otto of roses?
"Come and see me; my father has a fortune " "Ginevra," continued Laure, tenderly. "Madame Roguin and my mother are coming to see Monsieur Servin to-morrow and reproach him; hadn't you better warn him." A thunderbolt falling at Ginevra's feet could not have astonished her more than this revelation. "What matter is it to them?" she asked, naively. "Everybody thinks it very wrong.
Ginevra's behavior was an enigma to all her companions; her friends and enemies were equally surprised; for the former claimed for her all good qualities, except that of forgiveness of injuries.
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