Even the love of a mother does not sway him. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. She had animated dark blue-gray eyes under her fine eyebrows, and dark brown hair that rolled back simply and effectively from her broad low forehead. He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. “Nothing can cheer me,” he said, “except champagne. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. I was worried.
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