But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. But in the appendix of the dictionary she had discovered magic names—Hugo, Dumas, Thackeray, Hawthorne, Lytton. 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. Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other. I was engaged to dine with your sister and her husband, and I sent a wire. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail.
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