” She said. I know my son's voice too well. 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. I’m not Gerald, remember. “Idiotic, isn’t it?” “Absolutely,” she agreed coldly. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. ” He drank. ” She replied with a rehearsed answer, “I was told that my real mother died the day I was born.
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