His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. But she did not talk readily, and in order to say something she plunged a little, and felt she plunged. But if I painted her as I'd like to, the natives would instantly distrust me; and I'd have to build up confidence all over again. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. She began to draw on her gloves thoughtfully. His patient was distinctly of a different order of life. You know not in what dark places my life has been cast; with what crimes it has been stained. It doesn't look bad, does it?" "Mercy, no! That wasn't the thought.
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