The looming face was 71 over her own once again, and arms as strong as iron bars held her down. A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps. Then the hotel manager struck his palms together sharply, and two Chinese "boys" came pattering in from the dining room. In those revolutionary times one had to be prepared. But she no longer felt Jacomo’s age, even if she looked it. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. She had no inkling of that insupportable wrong. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. Besides, I'm afraid her simple honesty will spoil any invented yarn.
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