She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. She would not forgive me. "Hush!" she said, putting her lean fingers to her lips. Every movable mirror had been placed here, to discourage vanity, and since no whitewash covered the brocaded purple wallpaper, its pervasive hue gave an added sense of heaviness to the crowded chamber. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s. All this muddle to placate his conscience! "Here—quick!" McClintock thrust a cigar into Spurlock's hand.
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