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 lamp was spreading soot over everything and the reek of kerosene was stronger than usual. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. After all, what could happen? He was looking at her very hard and earnestly. Ennison, or any other young man. “I am so sorry to have startled you,” she said, “but I was startled myself. Running to Gosse, she seized the portrait from his hand and lashed out, taking him off guard, so that he staggered back and fell against the card table.
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