She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. “I don’t believe there is one. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. . If you owe your confinement to me, you shall owe your liberation to me, also. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti.
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