His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. It was just such a bedroom as she would have chosen for herself. They are horrible. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. “Not for these things, O Ann Veronica, have you revolted,” it said; “and this is not your appropriate purpose. Just an idea of mine. A boy no older than she, Gianfrancesco’s cousin, whispered what he would like to do to her when she stole into the hallways near the women’s chambers to fix herself. She had been in the drawing-room for a few minutes before the gong had sounded, and had chattered gaily to every one. “No man can realize,” she said, “what that pit can be. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.
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