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Marjorie Bowen

Page 31

by Marjorie Bowen


  'Milan!' he sobbed.

  De Lana bent down eagerly to catch a muttered prayer, but there was nothing more.

  'Milan!'

  The voices and shouts rose to a deafening pitch of confusion, the very air seemed fevered with excitement; a flock of startled doves flew past in panic, a rainbow of colour; flew so low and so close to de Lana as to blind him for a moment with the whirr of their wings, and in that moment was a terrible cry.

  They passed, beating the lilies down.

  'My lord!' cried de Lana. 'My lord!'

  But even as he spoke, he knew Gian Visconti was dead.

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