She observed a man walking on the opposite side of the way and looking toward her. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. How I envied Gianfrancesco on his wedding night, how I writhed in agony just thinking 171 about his intimacies with you! Then you became pregnant, and there he was, posturing and gloating like the rest of the family, my divinations of a boy in your womb pronounced. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. Ramage. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient.
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