\" His tone was weak and conciliatory. If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. ’ The command was accompanied by an increase of pressure on the wrist he held. He would go there. ” Her hand hung over the side of her chair nearest to him. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. “I think,” she said, “that I rather like what you have said. . 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.
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