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by F. Marion Crawford
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His fingers were dark, too, but not thin, and they were smooth and dingy and very pointed, a fact which the young princess noticed with dislike, as he indicated the spot on the broad sheet of rough, hand-made paper, where he wished her to sign.
Veronica left Bianca Corleone's house with a very painful sense of disappointment, and as she drove homeward through the wet streets, she could not get rid of Gianluca's tearful blue eyes, which seemed to follow her into the carriage; and in the rattling and jolting, she heard again and again that one weak sob which had so disturbed her. At that moment she would rather have gone directly back to the convent in Rome, to stay there for the rest of her life, than have married such an unmanly man as she believed him to be. His words had left her cold, his face had frozen her, his tears had disgusted her.
About the Author
F. Marion Crawford (1854-1909) was born in Italy, the son of the Irish-American sculptor, Thomas Crawford, and a sister of Julia Ward Howe, and was one of the most popular novelists of his day.
With a cosmopolitan education (in Italy, America, England, and Germany) and extensively traveled (including a stint in India as a newspaper editor), Crawford was the living embodiment, for many, of the late 19th-century genteel tradition.
His wide range as a traveler has contributed doubtless to another characteristic quality: his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd characters and his magical skill in seeming to make his readers witnesses of the spectacles.
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