‘Cajolery? This is not your style. They were the only real marriages she had seen clearly. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. I didn’t know he had Italian relatives. And if he would, I would not subject him to the annoyance. Things happen out this way. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten. My reply to all of them has been the same.
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