She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. In a little while he and she were talking quite easily and agreeably. To write under a pseudonym!—to be forced to disown his children! He could not write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should these tales prove successful. She told you —the truth. "The key," replied the widow. He continued to do this for the rest of the evening intermittently, in and out, among other topics. Luck.
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