She ran away after she had divined that Gianfrancesco had remarried. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. She wanted to kiss his feet. “I have a message from your sister. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. Turning, she flew for the nearest door. Do not believe it, Madam.
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