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. He knocked his pipe on the teak rail. Most of the vessels lying in the river were driven from their moorings, dashed tumultuously against each other, or blown ashore. He talked very little and rather absently. What little happiness I had I was forced to steal.
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