He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. Soon, they fattened up, their cheeks rosy and their hair shining. “I am going to fetch some things that will be wanted if he pulls through the next hour. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. .
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