I quickly ingratiated myself to Gianfrancesco, playing on his insecurities, drawing from his need for more and more power. “Now,” he said, “no one can blunder in upon us. He laid her on their old bed and kissed her from head to toe. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. I know my son's voice too well.
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