Her
petticoat, of dark red homespun, stopped short above her bare brown ankles,
and her little feet were naked. Her brown hair, long and abundant, was
still fastened at the nape of her slim neck, but fell loose beyond that,
having been disturbed, no doubt, in her scuffle with Rinolfo. Her little
mouth was deeply red and it held strong young teeth that were as white as
milk.
I have since wondered whether she was as beautiful as I deemed her in that
moment. For it must be remembered that mine was the case of the son of
Filippo Balducci--related by Messer Boccaccio in the merry tales of his
Decamerone1--who had come to years of adolescence without ever having
beheld womanhood, so that the first sight of it in the streets of Florence
affected him so oddly that he vexed his sire with foolish questions and
still more foolish prayers.
1 In the Introduction to the Fourth Day.
So was it now with me. In all my eighteen years I had by my mother's
careful contriving never set eyes upon a woman of an age inferior to her
own. And--consider me foolish if you will but so it is--I do not think
that it had occurred to me that they existed, or else, if they did, that in
youth they differed materially from what in age I found them. Thus I had
come to look upon women as just feeble, timid creatures, over-prone to
gossip, tears, and lamentations, and good for very little that I could
perceive.
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