‘You would like? And do you imagine that I will tell you?’ ‘Won’t you?’ ‘No, a thousand times. She was powerless to move from her chair. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. It seemed older than Rome, and the stone covering it gave resistance.
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