‘Can you not open it?’ she cried. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. Gianfrancesco took her that night gently, for which she was glad. “Impossible to say,” he answered.
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