“Before this there was a sort of restraint—a make-believe. Suddenly, she heard the crunch of new feet on the gravel. Well-balanced, sane, wasn’t I? You never heard anyone call me a madman? I’m pretty near being one now, and it’s her fault. 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. So it is that I do not do these things. E.
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