“I am afraid—I really think that one of us ought to go with you,” he said. On the contrary. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. After all, they’re history in the making. It was easy to discern Gianfrancesco’s mood. Having only seen him in the gloom of a dungeon, and loaded with fetters, Kneebone had not noticed this alteration: but he was now greatly struck by it.
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