The Palazzo was unlike anything she had ever known. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression. Her heart in her mouth, she heard his foot scrape on the floorboard and knew from his expression that Gosse had heard it too. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. “Thank you both for treating me for all the world like I was your child. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. I hope—I am sure that he did not see me. Ah, but she could remember; and many things there were that she would never forgive. Her eyes were soft and blue, arched over by dark brows, and fringed by long silken lashes. I have never wept since that day.
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