It was easy to discern Gianfrancesco’s mood. “It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. He hated horizons. Here he was preparing to leap over the hedge into the fields on the left, when he was intercepted by two horsemen, who, hearing the shouts, rode up and struck at him with the butt-ends of their heavy riding-whips. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace.
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