He had been hurt by the words, but by a kind of unconscious selfishness
his pain helped him to do what he believed to be his duty.
And Marietta forgot that he had picked up the rose dropped by her in the
path, she forgot that she had seen him stand gazing up at her window,
with a look that could mean only love, she forgot how tenderly and
softly he had answered her in the garden; she only remembered that she
had done her utmost, and too much, to make him tell her that he loved
her, and in vain. She could not forgive him that, for even after three
days her cheeks burned fiercely whenever she thought of it. After that,
it mattered nothing what became of her, whether she were betrothed, or
whether she were married, or whether she went mad, or even whether she
died--that would be the best of all.
In this mood Marietta entered the gondola and seated herself by her
father on Sunday morning. She wore an embroidered gown of olive green, a
little open at her dazzling throat, and a silk mantle of a darker tone
hung from her shoulders, to protect her from the sun rather than from
the air. Her russet hair was plaited in a thick flat braid, and brought
round her head like a broad coronet of red gold, and a point lace veil,
pinned upon it with stoat gold pins, hang down behind and was brought
forward carelessly upon one shoulder.
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