“I can’t endure it,” she said. Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. She spent many days in the castle alone as he busied himself with his alchemy, or traveled to Florence to visit his remaining political connections. The devil is on top, not below.
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