I was curious about that. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. Winifred, you are deceived in me. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. That is what marriage is to most young women: the ultimate escape from the family, from the unwritten laws that govern children. She ran away after she had divined that Gianfrancesco had remarried. They were loath to admit to the public that the case would be closed in a few years for sheer lack of forensic evidence.
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