Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. Sheppard. She said she hoped she had not distressed him by the course she had felt obliged to take, and he told her not to be a fool. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. Unless—would he hide from them as he had hidden from her? It was a big house, he said. Fathers are abandoning their own children at the first sign of fever or buboes, Gianfrancesco! Priests have abandoned their churches. “I want you so much, Lucy. But what a monster was this Emile. So completely! The oddest fitness! What is it made of? Texture of skin and texture of mind? Complexion and voice. 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. I didn’t! I didn’t! After all—” For a time her mind ran on daintiness and its defensive restraints as though it was the one desirable thing.
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