It was wonderful. Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning. The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating. 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. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own.
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