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. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. In a sense I don’t care. ‘What in Hades d’ye mean, thanks to me? Want to blame anyone, blame that rapscallion who calls himself your father. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. He's got the gift of the gab. At no loss to comprehend that Jack was the individual pointed out by these outcries, two of the nearest of the group made a dash at him. " "Leave us together, my good woman," said Jack, putting a guinea into her hand.
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