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Updated: May 18, 2025
Years ago, in his stormy youth-time, there had been a pair of soft-fringed eyes that looked into his as none would ever look again, and they murdered her, those mad wild beasts of Paris, in the chapel where she knelt at her pure prayers, murdered her because she knelt beside an aristocrat, her best friend, the Duchess of Montmorenci, who had taken the pretty peasant from her own estate to bring her up for her maid.
It was another world. And the most strange feeling came on him, as of the flowers falling again all over his face and neck and hands, the tickling of their soft-fringed edges, the stinging sweetness of their scent. And he seemed to hear her voice saying: "Feel!" and to feel her heart once more beating under his hand. Alone with that black-shawled figure in the silent church, Anna did not pray.
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