There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again. A boy no older than she, Gianfrancesco’s cousin, whispered what he would like to do to her when she stole into the hallways near the women’s chambers to fix herself. And, without another word, he seized the table with both hands, and upset it; scattering plates, dishes, bottles, jugs, and glasses far and wide. It was Blueskin.
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