You deal with her. My boys buy them with beads or bolts of calico of mine. ‘Come, cry a truce. 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. Life! Life and love! It makes me want to be always young, always strong, always devoting my life—and dying splendidly. I’ve accustomed myself to think of you— as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities.
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