"It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, "so you may spare your breath. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. She isn't used to cities. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. She ran away after she had divined that Gianfrancesco had remarried. Everywhere there are limitations. She was marvellously pretty, but he was not quite sure—yet—that it was advisable for him to sit with her in so public a place.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 30-09-2024 21:54:30