\"Where have you been, young lady?\" Mike crooned, a large grin on his fat Irish face. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. There was no way to warn her of his presence without startling her. There are times when you make me feel a little thing at your feet—a young, silly, protected thing. I wonder what it was.
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