His age was not far from fifty. Well, my dear, it is time you stopped wallowing in your sorrows like a common wretch. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. He had come to Anna’s rooms from a dinner party, and he was in evening dress. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. "His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily.
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