“I want to speak to you. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. But the love of life prevailed over his fears. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. Tell her, that more than once, when about to commit some desperate offence, I have been restrained by her gentle image. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. I do not love you. ” “The truth!” There was a brief but intense silence. I could resist the tempter now, I am strong in health,—in mind. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered.
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