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. "You forgot your lunch," she said. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. The stranger turned his head at the sound. She is a year or so older than I am, and she is, well, of a very serene and proud and dignified temperament. “Many nights I have thought of you, Anna.
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