" "I am one-and-twenty," observed Jack. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast. “Don’t worry, Julian. All this— the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things. We've got to make him take up the harp of life and go twanging it again. Not the most stringent search, conducted all morning, turned up one solitary sheet. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. They were silent and no longer observant, being more or less exhausted by the tedious action of the chairs. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. "Poor Mrs.
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