He was not in love with her en désespoir which, he said, was necessary if a man would marry without getting a dowry from his wife. But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. 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. He picked her up outside her last period Ceramics class. Never mind. I don't care how soon he learns that he has lost his adopted son. She laughed a little bitterly. ’ He turned to Melusine, ignoring the indignant protest that greeted his words.
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