Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. Leonardo was to me perhaps like a father, not a lover as you think. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. She held out the foil. Were it not for your voice, I don't think I should know you.
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