" And she set
before me a sheet upon which there was a sonnet writ in her own hand, which
was as beautiful as any copyist's that I have ever seen.
I read the poem. It was the tenderest and saddest little cry from a heart
that ached and starved for an ideal love; and good as the manner seemed,
the matter itself it was that chiefly moved me. At my admission of its
moving quality her white hand closed over mine as it had done that day in
the library when we had read of "Isabetta and the Pot of Basil." Her hand
was warm, but not warm enough to burn me as it did.
"Ah, thanks, Agostino," she murmured. "Your praise is sweet to me. The
verses are my own."
I was dumbfounded at this fresh and more intimate glimpse of her. The
beauty of her body was there for all to see and worship; but here was my
first glimpse of the rare beauties of her mind. In what words I should
have answered her I do not know, for at that moment we suffered an
interruption.
Sudden and harsh as the crackling of a twig came from behind us the voice
of Messer Fifanti. "What do you read?"
We started apart, and turned.
Either he, of set purpose, had crept up behind us so softly that we should
not suspect his approach, or else so engrossed were we that our ears had
been deafened for the time.
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