But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. . There was no one at home, and I was coming away when I saw that the door was open. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. ” “Yes. We'll see whether he'll get rid of his new bonds?" he added with a brutal laugh, which was echoed by the bystanders. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood.
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