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. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. Yesterday!—who cared? To-morrow!—who knew? "Porpoise," she said, touching his hand. ‘You see, I had another reason for visiting your grandfather. "I haven't offended you?"—not contritely but curiously. He had only been prevented, indeed, by a fear of Mrs.
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