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The Italians by Frances Elliot
page 83 of 453 (18%)

"And pray what _were_ your good intentions, cavaliere?" she asked, in
a mocking tone, reseating herself. Her curiosity was rapidly getting
the better of her resentment.

As she asked the question, the cavaliere left off nursing his leg with
the nankeen trouser, rose, drew his chair closer to hers, then sat
down again. The light from the single pair of candles was very dim,
and scarcely extended beyond the card-table. Both their heads were
therefore in shadow, but the marchesa's eyes gleamed nevertheless, as
she waited for Trenta's explanation.

"Did you observe nothing this evening, my friend?" he
asked--"_nothing_?" His manner was unusually excited.

"No," she answered, thoughtfully. She had been so exclusively occupied
with the slights put upon herself that every thing else had escaped
her. "I observed nothing except the impertinence of Count Marescotti,
and the audacity--the--"

"Stop, marchesa," interrupted Trenta, holding up his hand. "We will
talk of all that another time. If Count Marescotti and Baldassare have
offended you, you can decline to receive them. You observed
nothing, you say? I did." He leaned forward, and spoke with
emphasis--"Marescotti is in love with Enrica."

The marchesa started violently and raised herself bolt upright.

"The Red count in love with a child like Enrica!"

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