Lucia watched in fascination as Isobella nodded at her, only three years older than she, nursing her son with a contented smile upon her face. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. Day before, send round to each to borrow a shirt. The eyes, too, though large and bright, and shaded by long lashes, seemed to betoken, as hazel eyes generally do in men, a faithless and uncertain disposition. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. Irregularly, in a quite inglorious and unromantic way, you know, I am a vicious man.
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