There must be something behind the missioner's actions, something of which the girl knew nothing nor suspected. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. The panel in the bookcase. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. The title had formerly been held by Gianfrancesco’s brother, Alessia, now dead of plague.
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