She walked through the office to the door, aimlessly. 23 She had always considered herself a simple wool maker’s daughter, but she began to realize that by marrying Gianfrancesco she had unwittingly gained entrance to a separate world. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. But never mind that. The amazing tonic of the thought! From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock's forehead: it was still cold. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. The baby boy was delivered in a sea of black blood, born dead and blue, and strangled by plague. ’—he’s frightfully anti-Mendelian—having it all their own way. It was shameful, but again, her mother had prepared her for it.
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