This is a tale of two young fools. Perhaps the sunken cheeks and the protruding cheekbones gave her this impression. Every one turned to her in astonishment. Gianfrancesco took her that night gently, for which she was glad. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. As he proceeded, other painful reminiscences were aroused. Darting quickly to the chest that contained the priest’s vestments, she leapt onto it and reached her arm down to scrabble behind it on the floor. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. At the Palazzo she had been confined to her own sunny windowed quarters most of the time, but she had the entire run of the inside of the manor. Rotten, and covered with a thick coat of dirt, the boards of the floor presented a very insecure footing; the bare walls were scored all over with grotesque designs, the chief of which represented the punishment of Nebuchadnezzar. I cannot tell you much about it, but my bad times are over for the present. It was Blueskin.
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