” Michelle said. "It is Jonathan. ” She rested the firing end of the cannon against her own temple. One of the shutters was a trifle damaged, letting in added light. Melusine glanced at the walls as she sped down the four flights of stairs, and noted with relief that some paintings remained. Leonardo had not taught her to do so. "It is your son. "Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection.
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