58 \"Why will you not touch me?\" She cried out, sitting up, her head in her hands. There are two ways to go in, you understand. Gianfrancesco stumbled belatedly onto the beach, his feet padding wet sand. He did not know what her game was, although he had a shrewd suspicion that she had been co-opted into it by her supposed husband, the soi-disant Valade. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly.
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