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. She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. “I was trying to design a personal hovercraft. But it would be too risky. Try and let him never regret it. “I wonder why I am always hungry nowadays.
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