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. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging. In the discussion there was the oddest mixture of things that were personal and petty with an idealist devotion that was fine beyond dispute. But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London.
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