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. His hands came up, his face broke apart. ’ He shifted unguardedly, and hissed a breath, wincing. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. ‘Do you think I could endure to hear you prattling your abominable French in my ear day by day? Enough to drive me straight into my grave.
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