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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. When he had finished he took up the wine list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne. She was glad when he went on: “I want to be your city of refuge from every sort of bother. It’s a tremendous blow, of course—but it doesn’t kill me. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. “So how about this Friday?” He asked. The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort.
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