Of late, however, his plotting had assumed a more dark and dangerous complexion. 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. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked.
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