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. "I am so excessively fond of snuff. And when you reflect how much at heart your poor mother, whose loss we must ever deplore, had our union, you will, I am persuaded, no longer refuse me. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. ” He recovered himself. Her body rose up to meet his in a cat-like stretch and she smiled.
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