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 And in the morning she set out with Gian carrying her boxes and shawl, his dwarfishness increasing the appearance of her slender height. His thick, dark face made hers look fair as a goddess. He managed all the arrangements for train or diligence. He bullied the hotel-keepers, served her at table himself, slept just outside her door at night, and took her to some church every day. She found that he had been raised by monks and had, until his deformity became too marked, hoped to be a priest. But his life had been interesting. At one time he had been valet de chambre to a countess and had hooked her into her dresses and curled her hair. He spoke often of young Cuncliffe, 'my master,' whom he adored with a doglike simplicity, less often but very naturally of his master's lovely 'cousin' who, may saints give her rest, had died that winter, 'oh, the pretty.'

'Cousin!'

Young Cuncliffe could not have picked a better ambassador.

By the time Genoa was passed and the road turned south to Lucca and Florence, Lanice felt towards Cuncliffe more curiosity than resentment. Of course she would treat him very formally, and would only see him in regard to the sad business at hand. She would bow and not offer her hand. 'Mr. Cuncliffe, I presume.' But if she had never met Captain Jones, how different the meeting might be. Then she really would have hated him.