She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. “I first saw you crossing the river Arno, after a spring rain had spoiled the day for everyone except the ducks. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally.
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