There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. “Stop! Stop telling me these things at once! We should stay in the Palazzo! I must protect my ancestral home!” Gianfrancesco exclaimed. ’ He sighed. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. CHAPTER XIV.
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