The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. He listened. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. They bickered frequently now as Gianfrancesco protested the prices of things like funeral candles and poultices to comfort the dying. A dull light shone through the open window blinds and softened the room with parchment yellowness. So he decided to stay. Without you I should never have recovered either health or reason. Men usually do.
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