If you recall, Gianfrancesco’s second cousin had been ransomed by a family they had feuded with for hundreds of years. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. A very familiar face emerged from a crowd at the impromptu bar on the kitchen island. It was less will than education. "It looks as though, we should go together," he said, pulling her toward him. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly.
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