Our men had him fast, held down in a chair. They walked back to 118 hand in hand. We always go out to dinner on holidays. 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. He was a small, dark, reserved man, with a large inflexiblelooking convex forehead, and his wife was very pink and high-spirited, with one of those chins that pass insensibly into a full, strong neck. Gently she raised his head and withdrew the coat from under the pillow. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. But not today.
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