On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. Her aunt went off at a tangent.
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