“Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. “I don’t believe there is one. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. Ruth did not consider it necessary, however, to add that she had not notified this aunt of her coming, that she did not know whether the aunt still resided in Hartford or was underground. People are afraid of her that no one has ever dared to make fun of her. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise.
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