Her mother tried to soothe her with tales of romance and love, of all the fineries that she would enjoy in the Palazzo, but all Lucia could do was cry until her cheeks twitched and her forehead ached. ” He consumed Irish stew for some moments. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat. You see, the horse it does not belong to me, nor to the nuns. Gianfrancesco took her that night gently, for which she was glad.
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