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“Yes; he does nothing but stare at Diana—silly fellow! As if a woman like Diana, without thinking of her position, would ever look at him.”

“Nevertheless,” said Pandolfini, “to turn his eyes to the best, though it be without hope, is not that well?”

“It might be very well,” said Mrs. Norton, “if it were not such an annoyance to Diana. At home she cannot move for him—he is always following her about like a dog. And you know, Mr. Pandolfini, if a woman were the best woman that ever lived, that is unworthy of a man.”

“I do not know—no, that is not what I should say. When the person is Miss Trelawny, many things may be pardoned,” said the Italian. He was so brown that an additional tint of colour scarcely showed on his face; but as his eyes turned from the curate to Diana, a subdued glow came over his countenance, and a light into his blue eyes. Mrs. Hunstanton, who was a quick observer, caught him in the very act. She{98} 토토사이트 looked at him, and sudden perception awoke in her. And he felt it with that sensitiveness which is like an additional sense, and looked at her in her turn with a pathetic half smile, explaining the whole, though not a word was said. Mrs. Hunstanton was touched: perhaps such a confidence, made without a word, by the eyes only, yet so frank and full of feeling, went more to her heart than if it had been accompanied by much effusion in words. But there was nothing said, and Mrs. Norton remained pleasantly unaware of anything that had happened, and went on discoursing about the Snodgrasses, uncle and nephew, with quite as much unction as if both her companions had been giving her their entire attention, as indeed she believed them to do.

“In my dear husband’s time,” she said, “the clergy of a parish were never both absent even for a day. He would have been shocked beyond description at the idea. Do you think it can be right, Mr. Pandolfini, for both the rector and the curate to be away together? If any one is sick, what is to become of them? and they are not even married, so as to leave some one behind who could look after the poor. Do you think it can be right under any circumstances?” And this anxious champion of justice fixed her eyes with an almost severe appeal on the Italian’s face.{99}

“Can I tell?” he answered, throwing up his hands and his shoulders with a characteristic gesture. “The curate never leaves his parish in my country. When he would have leisure, he takes it among the rest. A poor priest does not think of villeggiatura, what you call holidays. He is too poor——”

“But even the rector,” said Mrs. Norton, insisting. “Of course, if there is a very good curate—yes, yes, they are generally poor in England as well as in other places—a poor curate, that is what people are always saying; but even the rector. Of course, I forgot, I beg your pardon, your priests are never married, poor wretched men! What a bondage to put upon a man! don’t you think so, Mr. Pandolfini?”
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