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“Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. Something like a snarl crossed his face, and ignoring the pistol, he moved forward, seizing her shoulders. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. Shall we sit outside and drink a petit verre of something to give us an appetite while dinner is being prepared?” “Certainly not,” she answered. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. My dear! we’ve had so many moments! I used to go over the times we’d had together, the things we’d said—like a rosary of beads. " "Better eat these, even if you don't want them," she urged. No doubt he has been drinking for days without eating substantially, and his heart gave out.
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