” When he brought home papers from Florence verifying that she had been declared dead having committed suicide the fateful day at the manor, she could barely believe Gianfrancesco’s signature at the bottom of the page. She came to adore them. I wish to prevent a repetition of any such errand as I presume you have come here upon this evening. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. She counted three on the way to the train and four more on the crowded car that would have gladly taken him to bed with not so much as a word. You have to see her to understand. “Number 13, please, cabman. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. ” “Very well. But she made no answer. The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle, good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold.
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