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"When I said that," John explained, "I had no inkling that her rank was so exalted." "Did you think she was the daughter of a cobbler?" Maria Dolores quickly, with some haughtiness, inquired. "I thought she was a daughter of the stars," John answered. "And you feared her name was Smitti," she said, haughtiness dissolving in mirth. "I will never tell you what she feared that yours was."
She had spoken English, but Annunziata's next outcry was like a response. "Oh, to live, to live I want to live, to live Oh, let me live!" But at other times her wandering thoughts took quite a different turn. Gazing solemnly up into Maria Dolores' face, she said, "He does not even know her name, though he fears it may be Smitti. I thought it was Maria Dolores, but he fears it may be Smitti."
"I know what I wish her name was," John promptly answered. "I wish to Heaven it was Blanchemain." Maria Dolores gazed, pensive, at the moon. "He does not even know her name," she remarked, on a key of meditation, "though he fears," she sadly shook her head, "he fears it may be Smitti."
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