His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. “You are late,” she murmured. See paragraph 1. ‘I told you I could handle her. “It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended. "You mean you were just sorry for him?" "As I would be for any human being in pain. ‘Alors, pig!’ she cried and lunged in quarte. I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me.
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