The picture in her mind altered and she saw again the way Gerald had looked with consternation upon the bruises he had inflicted on her wrist. "What do you mean by that, sirrah?" cried Wood, reddening with anger. “You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. She made a quick movement, and the hand fell away. Wanton! Had I been one, even God would have forgiven me, understanding. Father had traveled to Florence to the Mercato Nuovo, staying away for a half year at a time paying court to the house of the silk merchant Iovelli, which was patronized by none other than the Medicis. “DON’T!” she said, and wrenched her wrist from his retaining hand.
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