She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. His chest heaved violently, and big tears coursed rapidly down his cheeks. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. “This is all rot!” he declared angrily. “I have the right to be here.
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