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. . ’ The snaking suspicion rolled through his mind again. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. She hated living like that. ” “Right,” he answered. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. Not these twenty year. “I’ll buy a new one. ” “All right! And I never dreamed anything of the sort was going on. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. She tested the limits to see how far 79 she could go, often running away for the day, causing him to fret and pace. You have made enough sacrifices for her surely without this.
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