Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. Of animal life, there was nothing left but monkeys and wild pig, the latter having been domesticated. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. I want to do something.
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