She glanced towards her sister, and curiously enough found in her face some faint reflection of her own rather sombre mirth. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQzLjIzMS4yNiAtIDA2LTA2LTIwMjQgMTg6NDM6MzcgLSAxMTk3MTM5OTE3
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