Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. ‘This is not love, Marthe. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. So far the boy's mind was clear. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. But a far greater affliction was in store for her. I did not choose to mention my knowledge of this fact to your worthy father; but you may rely on its correctness.
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