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. “I murder people, John. He has no imagination, no real generosity. On Sunday, he was conveyed to the chapel, through which he had passed on the occasion of his great escape, and once more took his seat in the Condemned Pew. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. Wood's. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti.
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