She had met her the previous winter at a pension in
Florence, where Daisy, who was suffering from a severe cold on her
lungs, played the role of the interesting invalid, and seldom went out
except for a short walk in the warmest part of the day, and only
appeared in the parlor in the evening, where she made a lovely picture,
seated in a large easy-chair, with her pretty blue wrapper and her shawl
of soft white wool wrapped around her.
The guests of the house were mostly Americans, who had never heard of
Daisy, and knew nothing of Monte Carlo, or Lord Hardy, and only saw her
a devoted wife and mother, and wondered vaguely how she could ever have
married that long, lank, lazy Englishman, who had neither life nor
spirit in him, and whom they thought a monster, because he never seemed
the least concerned when his lovely little wife coughed the hardest, and
could scarcely speak aloud. That was the English of him, they said, and
they set upon poor Archie behind his back, and tore his reputation as a
husband into shreds, and said be neglected his sick wife shamefully, and
in consequence, they were kinder and more attentive to her, and her
room was full of flowers, and fruit and bottle of port wine and sherry;
and Mrs.
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