The young ladies in the somewhat mixed society amongst which he moved neither satisfied his taste nor appealed in any way to his affections. “You no longer belong to Gianfrancesco. Surely our advice would have been worth having, at any rate. A young man was playing the banjo. I want to do without that for a time. They bickered frequently now as Gianfrancesco protested the prices of things like funeral candles and poultices to comfort the dying. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident. ‘Didn’t mean it, love.
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