Jack Kimble nodded eagerly. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. A boy no older than she, Gianfrancesco’s cousin, whispered what he would like to do to her when she stole into the hallways near the women’s chambers to fix herself. Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. “I do not lay claim,” he continued, “to any remarkable amount of insight, but it is possible, is it not, that I have stumbled upon your present cause of distress.
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