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 had her raven locks, her pouting lips. As time went on, she began to think Martha had been mistaken. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire. ” John’s father, Thomas, strode into the front hall at that moment in his golf clothes. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout.
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