It was cramped even at the end of the passage. The executioner shook his head. I suppose that’s the gist of the whole thing. But no more of that. Gianfrancesco took her that night gently, for which she was glad. I didn’t know he had Italian relatives. And she had been doubting since that walk in the Zoological Gardens whether, indeed, he did simply care for her. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen.
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