’ Tears sprang to Melusine’s own eyes, and she clasped the hand she held more tightly. She softened her tone and scrambled for the right words. Do you know, I envy you. Gianfrancesco had told her about it, how he had played in it as a child with his brothers. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion.
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