Wood struck me a blow which made me a robber. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. Wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of me, even I knew anything, which I don’t. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman. And girls and women, perhaps, are different.
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