It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. “I murder people, John. ” He got up and went to the guest room door and locked it. I’m talking to you now as though you had all the wisdom and charity in the world. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. It was on the eve of that memorable rebellion which broke forth, two months later, in Scotland. It doesn’t seem to matter. The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. How I envied Gianfrancesco on his wedding night, how I writhed in agony just thinking 171 about his intimacies with you! Then you became pregnant, and there he was, posturing and gloating like the rest of the family, my divinations of a boy in your womb pronounced. And then her pace slackened. "I forbid you to do that.
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