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 have never yet met a man whose intellect I could respect. ‘Must be still downstairs. "He is gone!" cried Mrs. Pity he's ta'en to bad ways so airly. “YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly.
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