‘Now see here, missie. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. ” When he brought home papers from Florence verifying that she had been declared dead having committed suicide the fateful day at the manor, she could barely believe Gianfrancesco’s signature at the bottom of the page. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. I am a man—of a sort of experience.
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