From “my last duchess” by robert browning . . she had a heart—how shall i say? —too soon made glad, too easily impressed; she liked whate’er she looked on, and her looks went everywhere. sir, ’twas all one! my favor at her breast, the dropping of the daylight in the west, the bough of cherries some officious fool broke in the orchard for her, the white mule she rode with round the terrace—all and each would draw from her alike the approving speech, or blush, at least. she men—good! but somehow—i know not how—as if she ranked my gift of a nine-hundred-year-old name with anybody’s gift.
in these lines, what complaint does the speaker make about his late wife?