He wisely refrained from questioning the manager of the Victoria. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass.
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