Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. 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. Many a black veil hid a high-born dame, and the religious habit was no protection. "You have uttered a wilful and deliberate falsehood in asserting that I have murdered Thames, for whom you well know I would lay down my life. Your aunt liked the pheasant.
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