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wings, and the Countess fled into her innermost
room.
She lived in her bedroom, opening out of the
red drawing-room. I have often heard that room
described as it was during that fatal time when Borg
was besieged by the magpies. Heavy curtains over
the doors and windows, thick carpets on the floors,
and creeping, whispering servants.
Pale despair abode in the heart of the Countess.
Her hair turned grey and her skin wrinkled; she
became an old woman in the course of a month.
She could not harden her heart in doubt of the
fateful sorcery. She sprang up from her dreams at
night with loud cries that the magpies were eating
her. She wept long days over the hard fate that she
could not avoid. Fearing people, afraid that the
flock of birds would follow in the wake of every one
entering the house, she usually sat with her hands
över her face, rocking herself in her armchair,
miserable and enervated, in the close air of the room,
now and then starting up with a cry or a wail.
No one could have had a more bitter life. No one
could help pitying her!
I have not had much to tell you about her, and
what I have said has not been kind. My conscience
almost smites me. She was kind-hearted and joyous
when she was young, and many amusing stories
about her have gladdened my heart, though this
has not been the place to tell you about them.
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