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Updated: June 13, 2025
"There is the signorino down in the garden," Ildegonda acquitted herself of the charge laid upon her by the donor of the silver franc still rejoicing her folded fingers, "who says if you will have the amiability to place yourself one moment at the window he would desire to say a word to you." The signorino.
Her parasol was a thing of endless lace ruffles, her wrap a thing of vanity. She passed out through the dressing-room, she crept down the stairs, laughing at her own remark that it was awfully like an elopement. The house was not yet astir; only the Ildegonda sweeping out the kitchen, and old Achille out in the garden picking early insects off his plants.
There stood near the door of her dressing-room an unknown female, wearing intricate gold ear-pendants and a dingy cotton dress without any collar. "Chi è voi?" inquired Aurora, lifting her head. "I am the Ildegonda," answered the woman, whose smile and everything about her apologized, and deprecated displeasure.
That had become the informal title by which the servants announced a guest who was let in so very frequently. Aurora understood finestra, window, and dire una parola, to say a word, and then that the signorino was giù in giardino. "All right." Aurora nodded to the Ildegonda, inviting her by a motion of the hand to go away again.
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