But I see now. 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. When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. His glasses were gone. She made up her mind in the train home that it should be a decisive crisis.
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