” She sniffled. I know. You don’t understand. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. ‘Étes-vous Francais?’ Her eyes, he noted, followed from himself to Hilary and back again, but she did not speak. She felt anger at Sebastian, anger at the thrill that she felt in her loins upon seeing him, anger at herself for never having the courage to end her own life.
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