Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. Wood will be here presently. She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. I pray, Anna, that you may find your happiness. You must forgive the poet’s license I take.
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