“I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. ” He stood before her, his hat in his hand, his head bent, his voice lowered to a convenient pitch. Gianfrancesco ran from the room, tearing at his hair.
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