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Italians. Then, naturally, I went on talking. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song.
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