She hated living like that. "Will he live?" asked Ruth. Yet he stays. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. A boy no older than she, Gianfrancesco’s cousin, whispered what he would like to do to her when she stole into the hallways near the women’s chambers to fix herself. Accounts were now always where he could put his hand on them. You must forgive the poet’s license I take.
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