“You have the temperament,” he said. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. 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. It began in the eyes and spread to the lips: warm, embracing, even fatherly.
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