They were wed in Florence, in the grandest cathedral she had ever seen, the Santa Maria del Fiore. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. With one or two exceptions, there were no pews; and, as the intercourse with London was then but slight, the seats were occupied almost exclusively by the villagers. Marriage!—and no woman by to tell the child what it was! The shocks and disillusions she would have to meet unsuspectingly—and bitterly. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. She could not run, her limbs were frozen. At every step he seemed to be haunted by the ghost of the past.
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