’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it. "Put it under my pillow," he said. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat.
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