She had always expected to be married against her will by her mother,
or at all events without any inclination on her own part. She had been
taught that it was the way of the world, which it was better to
accept. If the proposed husband had been a cripple, or an old man, she
would have been capable of rebellion, of choosing the convent, of
running away alone into the world, of almost anything. But if he had
turned out to be an average individual, neither uglier, nor older, nor
more repulsive than many others, she would probably have accepted her
fate with indifference, or at least with the necessary resignation,
especially if she had never met Malipieri. Instead of that, it was
probably Malipieri whom she was to marry, the one of all others whom
she had chosen for herself, and in place of a dreary existence,
stretching out through endless blank years in the future, she saw a
valley of light, carpeted with roses, opening suddenly in the
wilderness to receive her and the man she loved.
It was no wonder that she smiled in her sleep as she lay resting in
the warm afternoon, in her own room. Her mother had made her lie down,
partly because she was still tired, and partly because it would be
convenient that she should be out of the way if Malipieri came.
He came, as the Princess had expected, and between two and three
o'clock, an hour at which he was almost sure to find her at home.
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