He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. The effects of the heroin wore off slowly. She glanced at him and made a dismissive gesture. Perhaps she was. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey. 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.
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