‘Gone!’ he said. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. 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. Get out your pad and pencil. ‘But how do you come here?’ ‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly.
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