" Mrs. ” “Personally,” he went on, “I must confess to a great disappointment. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. Was the situation so desperate that he could not pack his best things? She had packed lightly, not wanting to weigh down the carriage they would travel in. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. 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. I have been dreaming of your body and you night after night. Her heart thudded.
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