That's a queer yarn. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. How I envied Gianfrancesco on his wedding night, how I writhed in agony just thinking 171 about his intimacies with you! Then you became pregnant, and there he was, posturing and gloating like the rest of the family, my divinations of a boy in your womb pronounced. The papers are continually wondering what has become of ‘Alcide. Still, in spite of her glances and gestures, Mr. It makes no difference.
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