. It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom. He gurgled as if trying to communicate. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. She had never said anything so horrible to anyone in her life. "Rather a devil," groaned her son, "to have done this.
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