It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. “It was very tiring. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. They were bathing in the stream. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen.
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