She had once reconciled in her mind that she was happy as long as she had him. “A modern girl does understand these terms. Burn your palette and your easel. Lucy kicked her side, then her wounded leg, dislodging her. “And you?” “Same thing. For was not Gerald a gentleman? An Englishman, whose services any female—excluding her own self so idiote— would be very happy to have. He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo.
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