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. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit. Over one of the pinnacles of the tower a speck of pallid light marked the position of the moon, then newly born and newly risen. It is we who have become the parasites and toys. 8 or 1.
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