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 was to remain to time the most vivid pen portrait of Robert and Elizabeth Browning in the earlier days of their marriage. It was in this that she called Mrs. Browning 'a soul of fire encased in a shell of pearl.'

The next morning her mind still seemed choked with the corpse-flowers, even as she smelled the fresh violets that were being hawked beneath her window on the Lung' Arno. Death—love; love—death. These were the insoluble mysteries of human necessity. Roger laughed at her distaste for the corpse-flowers and promised to drive her far out into the country. They travelled in a big, old-fashioned berlina drawn by three stout Austrian horses hired for the occasion. For miles and miles they followed the rushing, swollen river through hamlets, past castles and villas and vineyards and meadows. For every turn and every village Roger had his story. Yonder by the poplars and the willows Buonconte died of wounds, crying the name of Mary, and in the same battle Dante rode in the light cavalry. 'You know the fifth canto of "Purgatory"?'

'And you have heard of La Verna, "the harsh rock"; it was here on a bright September morning before dawn (see where I point) that Saint Francis met the crucified seraph.

'Popes with their gilded trains; swaggering Condottieri captains with their fine hard men of war, Englishmen among them; the wanton ladies of Boccaccio stepping delicately in fine silks and speaking