She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open. He did not even reply to her for several minutes. Things happened frequently over here that wouldn't happen in the States once in a hundred years.
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