Perhaps I ate something spoiled for breakfast. He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. “She’s sensitive soul, far too sensitive to be married to an ass like Gianfrancesco. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. “I’m fine,” she said softly. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone.
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