’ He sighed. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. There’s always friction, conflict, unwilling concessions. . Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. That's the way it goes. “I get that a lot.
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