She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. His tongue was hot. “May I sit beside you?” “It’s a very difficult one,” said her aunt.
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