He must know she’ll be at a convent. But you’ve got to lend me forty pounds. How I envied Gianfrancesco on his wedding night, how I writhed in agony just thinking 171 about his intimacies with you! Then you became pregnant, and there he was, posturing and gloating like the rest of the family, my divinations of a boy in your womb pronounced. Do you want to kill us both? Stop the thing. ?” she asked. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. .
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