His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. Here, it might be anything at all. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than ever.
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