‘It is of no use to try to stop me. ‘You were his daughter. “It’s the spring,” he said. 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. Soon the trunk, portmanteau and hat box were ready. But women—women as a rule don’t throw themselves into things like that. A slow anger burned in the man.
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