She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. “You no longer belong to Gianfrancesco. ’ ‘I find that difficult to believe,’ snapped the general, jerking to and fro as his agitation mounted. I always fall on my feet, you know. “You’re a student, perhaps?” said the tall woman.
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