I continued to stare. My dear lady, he died a hundred years ago!
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Well, she said, mirthfully, my aunt is a hundred and fifty.
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Mercy on us! I exclaimed; why didn't you tell me before? I should like so to ask her about him.
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She wouldn't care for thatshe wouldn't tell you, Miss Tita replied.
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I don't care what she cares for! She must tell meit's not a chance to be lost.
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And what did she say? I asked, eagerly.
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I don't knowthat he liked her immensely.
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And shedidn't she like him?
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She said he was a god. Miss Tita gave me this information flatly, without expression; her tone might have made it a piece of trivial gossip. But it stirred me deeply as she dropped the words into the summer night; it seemed such a direct testimony.
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Fancy, fancy! I murmured. And then, Tell me this, pleasehas she got a portrait of him? They are distressingly rare.
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A portrait? I don't know, said Miss Tita; and now there was discomfiture in her face. Well, good-night! she added; and she turned into the house.
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I accompanied her into the wide, dusky, stone-paved passage which on the ground floor corresponded with our grand sala. It opened at one end into the garden, at the other upon the canal, and was lighted now only by the small lamp that was always left for me to take up as I went to bed. An extinguished candle which Miss Tita apparently had brought down with her stood on the same table with it. Good-night, good-night! I replied, keeping beside her as she went to get her light. Surely you would know, shouldn't you, if she had one?
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If she had what? the poor lady asked, looking at me queerly over the flame of her candle.
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A portrait of the god. I don't know what I wouldn't give to see it.
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I don't know what she has got. She keeps her things locked up. And Miss Tita went away, toward the staircase, with the sense evidently that she had said too much.
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