” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. If Emile can see him, then so also can I. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. Both husband and wife affected an unnatural ease of manner for the benefit of the efficient parlor-maid, who was putting the finishing touches to the sideboard arrangements. “Stop! Stop telling me these things at once! We should stay in the Palazzo! I must protect my ancestral home!” Gianfrancesco exclaimed. Don’t be afraid to go on thinking it. Basically, I was raised in daycare.
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