But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. "You are my prisoner. Gianfrancesco had told her about it, how he had played in it as a child with his brothers.
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