6. Lucy gestured to Michelle to follow her downstairs. Never. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind. 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. On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. "We won't have any trouble understanding each other; same language. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. Don’t leave me in this beastly thing.
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