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Gianfrancesco had been talked into the arrangement only because the drivers that had handled the job for generations were sick or dead. Her gown was minimalist compared to those concoctions of boning and lace of long ago, she reflected, but that did not stop it from getting caught on 134 brambles and twigs. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. “Father,” she cried, “I have to live!” He misunderstood her. Paris, 18.
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