She had seen a man’s head steal out for a moment and draw the curtains a little closer. She guarded her mother, or at least she had liked to think so. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. Gianfrancesco’s had curved differently and was darker. Then Capes flittered to the hearthrug and poked the fire, stood up, and turned about.
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