Oh, you must believe me. Melusine shrugged. “That thing’s going on,” she told herself. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day.
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