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Updated: June 6, 2025
She knew that date although she's a Protestant because December 27th is Marina's birthday, and in our letters we used to speak of that deceitful cat as "The Innocent."
Godmother grunted, but did not question Marina's decision. "And what news have you from your dear mother?" she asked again, without looking at Laura just as she never looked at the stocking she held, but always over the top of it. Here, however, the dinner-bell rang, and Laura, spared the task of giving more superfluous information, followed the two ladies to the dining-room.
But there was no recognition in the glance that met hers only the immeasurable pathos of a hopeless surrender; the fervent passion of Marina's will and faith had made all things seem possible of achievement, though Venice was against her, for had not the mission been given her in a vision by the Holy Madonna of San Donato Mother of Sorrows and was not the issue sure?
"Hello here's a little girl! What's HER name? Say, this kiddy can come along too." As it had leaked out that Marina's afternoon would be spent between the shelves of her storeroom, preparing for the incoming goods, Laura gratefully accepted the offer. They drove to Marlborough Tower.
He could not have told why he persisted in this strange wooing, for there had been but one response during the two years of his widowhood, while his child had been Marina's ceaseless care.
The servant, without waiting for orders, had already laid a plate for me, and Marina invited me to sit down near her. I felt vexed, because the aforesaid individual had not risen to salute me, and before I accepted Marina's invitation I asked her who the gentleman was, begging her to introduce me. "This gentleman," she said, "is Count Celi, of Rome; he is my lover."
She sang like one immortal, and danced as goddess-like, and with her needle she was so skilful that she seemed to compose nature's own shapes in birds, fruits, or flowers, the natural roses being scarcely more like to each other than they were to Marina's silken flowers.
'Dare not to speak that holy Name, apostate and worshipper of idols, eater of human flesh. Let Sarceda be summoned. A messenger went out, and for a while there was silence. I caught Marina's glance and saw pity in her gentle eyes.
It was a bookless house like most Australian houses of its kind: in Marina's bedroom alone stood a small bookcase containing school and Sunday school prizes. Laura was very fond of reading, and as she dressed that morning had cast longing looks at these volumes, had evenly shyly fingered the glass doors. But they were locked. Breakfast over, she approached Marina on the subject.
Round them stretched the broad white streets of East Melbourne; at their side was the thick, exotic greenery of the Fitzroy Gardens; on the brow of the hill rose the massive proportions of the Roman Catholic Cathedral. Laura could have danced, as she walked at Marina's side.
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