She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. That is not reasonable. Sheila was a stout woman, her bosoms huge, her face 110 wide and square. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast.
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