At the sound of the door Ann Veronica uncovered a tearless face, and with one swift movement assumed a conversational attitude. Perhaps I deceived you about it. They were wed in Florence, in the grandest cathedral she had ever seen, the Santa Maria del Fiore. She stood on the mat instead, and looked down on him. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. "Put it under my pillow," he said.
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