Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. Had to. Even then she had understood vaguely that she had touched upon some philosophy of life: that one was never lonely when alone, only in the midst of crowds.
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