Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. Wary they might be. ” Inwardly, she laughed at the idea of him trying to beat on her, flailing, his arms akimbo. . ” 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. He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not.
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