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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. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. Her two new friends did their best to entertain her. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food. “Everything very nice, I am sure,” Miss Stanley murmured to Capes as he steered her to a place upon the little sofa before the fire. He will not help them—and I told Emile so—and thus he sends them to my other grandpére, even that he knows he is dead. Thames, you needn't tidy yourself, as you've hurt your arm.
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