It had been intensified and corrupted by time, as if to add insult to injury. I trust that she will not misunderstand me. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. ” He extended his hand. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. ’ The core of hurt rose up, tearing at her insides. “You’ll be there, right?” She asked, hearing his breathing audibly jump.
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