The mighty concourse became for a moment still. People were passing in the street below. "What of her?" cried the knight. This isn’t the place. "Farewell!" blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand to her lips. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor.
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