Only Leonardo, and then Jack, had shown her that she might be admired. He had absorbed her in a single glance, and was now defining her as he worked. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. His new wife’s face was sweet and angelic with hair the color of flax, her belly already visibly large beneath a roe skin pelt.
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