Граф Монте-Кристо

Major Cavalcanti.

           Ayouthfulindiscretion,Isuppose,whichyouwereanxioustoconcealfromtheworldatlarge?"Themajorrecoveredhimself,andresumedhisusualcalmmanner,atthesametimecastinghiseyesdown,eithertogivehimselftimetocomposehiscountenance,ortoassisthisimagination,allthewhilegivinganunder-lookatthecount,theprotractedsmileonwhoselipsstillannouncedthesamepolitecuriosity."Yes,"saidthemajor,"Ididwishthisfaulttobehiddenfromeveryeye."

           "Notonyourownaccount,surely,"repliedMonteCristo;"foramanisabovethatsortofthing?"

           "Oh,no,certainlynotonmyownaccount,"saidthemajorwithasmileandashakeofthehead.

           "Butforthesakeofthemother?"saidthecount.

           "Yes,forthemother’ssakehispoormother!"criedthemajor,takingathirdbiscuit.

           "Takesomemorewine,mydearCavalcanti,"saidthecount,pouringoutforhimasecondglassofAlicante;"youremotionhasquiteovercomeyou."

           "Hispoormother,"murmuredthemajor,tryingtogetthelachrymalglandinoperation,soastomoistenthecornerofhiseyewithafalsetear.

           "ShebelongedtooneofthefirstfamiliesinItaly,Ithink,didshenot?"

           "ShewasofanoblefamilyofFiesole,count.

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