The temperature soared to one hundred degrees, sickeningly hot. She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. “I can’t conceive what you want. . ‘That is the man who tries to kill me, but he wounded instead my servant. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience.
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