She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. In the periphery of her vision, she saw the door pulled back. About nine o'clock, an immense mob collected before the Lodge at Newgate. Gianfrancesco ran from the room, tearing at his hair. Besides, he might hear things. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically.
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