” When he brought home papers from Florence verifying that she had been declared dead having committed suicide the fateful day at the manor, she could barely believe Gianfrancesco’s signature at the bottom of the page. “As she asked!” “It is already too late. The room was reeling, or was it that she was going to faint? She recovered herself with a supreme effort. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account.
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