" "En-shad-ay. ’ ‘Of course she could not have known to whom they belonged. "Do not endanger yourself on my account," rejoined his mother. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. ‘Not kill me, I mean. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. She even hit the jackpot in 1952 when she found a photograph in a London issue of Vogue. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company.
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