There was a pause, and then the front door slammed. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house. “Michelle, it’s me, Lucy.
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