The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun. At the Palazzo she had been confined to her own sunny windowed quarters most of the time, but she had the entire run of the inside of the manor. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. She searched for it for many days that stretched into weeks before she gave up.
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