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Sabatini had been in it forty times, maybe more, and had never attended to this. It was a window. It admitted light.
That was the extent of the professional relationship he had maintained with it across four years of coming here to deliver things.
Or to receive instructions or sit in one of the chairs by the far wall while Ferrante read what he’d brought. He had never once looked at what the window was looking at.
He was looking now.
The Palazzo de ...
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