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I quickly ingratiated myself to Gianfrancesco, playing on his insecurities, drawing from his need for more and more power. Before there is any change, any real change, I shall be dead—dead—dead and finished—two hundred years!. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. At least one of them was caught and put away. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth.
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