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’ With satisfaction, Gerald noted that her voice was hopelessly unsteady and drove home his advantage. 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. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass. Lord, I am sixty. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. Wood, "and take your son with you.
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