Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. Something drew you. 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.
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