"I cannot sign it," returned Trenchard. “She’s sensitive soul, far too sensitive to be married to an ass like Gianfrancesco. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. The daughters, he had hoped, would be their mother’s care. ’ ‘So this is the way you serve me,’ exclaimed Melusine, her quick temper flaring as she jumped up, slammed her hands on the desk and leaned towards him over it. Girls erupted in waves of whispering as soon as she passed them by.
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