It was easy to discern Gianfrancesco’s mood. In the northwest angle, there was a small pen for female offenders, and, on the south, a more commodious enclosure appropriated to the master-debtors and strangers. Rain changed to hail, then 154 sleet, then snow. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. I’m not a psycho.
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