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Sudden indignation boiled up in him. If anyone noticed, he did not report the event. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand. 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. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club.
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