‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. Gianfrancesco became agitated. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room.
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