Lady Palsworthy was the widow of a knight who had won his spurs in the wholesale coal trade, she was of good seventeenth-century attorney blood, a county family, and distantly related to Aunt Mollie’s deceased curate. Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy. In a moment he was beside her. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. Beneath the hood it was evident that her rebellious hair was bound up with red silk, and fastened by some device in her ears (unless she had them pierced, which was too dreadful a thing to suppose!) were long brass filigree earrings. He had looked at it before without comprehension. To—to find myself. There's our young friend upstairs.
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