She went about the familiar home with a clearer and clearer sense of inevitable conclusions. It has something to do with the fact that my Mom had them when she was only seventeen. Since the discovery of them, she had been madly eager to read these typewritten tales. My reception at West Kensington you know of. 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.
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