His head turned sideways towards the noise, his brows scowling. “You would believe that life is kindled by the passions alone. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. A struggle of the most terrific kind now ensued. Close upon this came another thought. She was surprised and stared at him when he did not immediately leave the bed as Gianfrancesco always did, but instead rested on his elbows. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable.
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