Gianfrancesco took her that night gently, for which she was glad. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. For that matter, my future be damned. “Sufficient unto me is the change thereof,” he said, with all the effect of an epigram. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break open,—the walls too thick: but the ceiling,—if he could reach it—there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet.
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