Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. They were wed in Florence, in the grandest cathedral she had ever seen, the Santa Maria del Fiore. Everything in the world had changed for her. Running his hand hastily over it, he was startled to find it one complicated mass of bolts and bars. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. “Here’s something rather good,” he said, and with a start and an effort she took his place at the microscope, while he stood beside her and almost leaning over her. “I was frightened then,” she declared.
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