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ARIADNE. 111their goodnight's sleep — butIdoubt if eversheheard.She never seemed to me either to listen to, orto see, anything that wasin theair oraround herin the streets — unless it were some misery thatshe could relieve in any way, or some little childlaughing and catching at its mother's hair.Ithink the world only held for her one face,and the ah- only one voice:and wherever shewent she saw and heard those.And thoughIhad promised what Maryx hadrefused to promise, there were times thatIfeltthat whoever killed Hilarion would do well.He never came to Rome.ButIthink she always hoped with every sunwhich rose that he might come there, for shewoulcl cover herself so that no one could havetold whether she werelovely or unlovely, youngor old, and woulcl walk to and fro the city hourafter hour, day after clay, week after week,lookinghi every face she met; and Rome was only.dear toher now because its stones had borne hissteps and its watersmirrored his image.All powers,or thought,of Art, seemed to have