Murder had become nothing to her. But there was no feeling of remorse; there was only the sensation of exaltation. “Before this there was a sort of restraint—a make-believe. She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. The afternoon had passed now into twilight. I'll wait for you down here.
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