Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent. As usual, Lucy traced over parts of her experiences in her confidences with Shari, skipping lightly over her own 10 story as a pebble would over a lake. He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude. 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. Also Lucy, who had been so much her friend.
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