His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. I quickly ingratiated myself to Gianfrancesco, playing on his insecurities, drawing from his need for more and more power.
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