He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. That's the only fault I know of. Our ideal had fallen. 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. Thank you for walking me home the other day. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly.
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