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. But a little daughter is one thing and a daughter quite another. Michelle looked at Lucy's feet, still in the ugly brown loafers she had worn since last year. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton.
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