“Not a bit of it. It was the only time she had ever hit him, punched him right in the stomach like one of his favorite Three Stooges episodes. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. “You no longer belong to Gianfrancesco. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. It’s not fair to you. " "Right," answered Ireton. ‘Give me that!’ He took his finger away from her neck and made a grab at the handkerchief.
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