San Miniato had perhaps gone too far when he had said that
Beatrice was kind. She, at least, felt that there was anything but
kindness in her heart now, and she desired nothing so much as to make
some one suffer something of what she felt. It was wicked, doubtless, as
she admitted to herself. It was bad and wrong and cruel, but it was not
heartless. A woman without heart would not have felt enough to resent
having felt at all, and moreover would probably be perfectly well
satisfied with the situation.
The expression of hardness deepened in the young girl's face as she sat
there, silently thinking over all that was to come, and glancing from
time to time at her mother's placid countenance. It was really amazing
to see how much the Marchesa could bear when she was actually roused to
a sense of the necessity for action. Her constitution must have been
far stronger than any one supposed. She must indeed have been in
considerable anxiety about the success of her plans, more than once
during the past few days. Yet she was outwardly almost as unruffled and
as lazy as ever.
"Dearest child," she said at last, "of course, as I have said, I cannot
argue the point with you.
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