He suddenly became eloquent and plausible. With a moment of inward shame he remembered his deportment towards Anna. He could not possibly lunge in the confined space, and so had nothing to do but back himself into the chapel as fast as he could. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. Nobody can anticipate your next move. “My God!” he said again. ‘Murder is serious business, Gianfrancesco.
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