Trenchard was tempted to examine the contents of some of these cases, but a closer inspection made him recoil from them in disgust. 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. I saw her face and it was the face that had been hidden from me in dreams, a face very much like yours, Lucia. But, by Jove! you are fierce! You are like those Roman women who carry stilettos in their hair. At the thought of the major, her tears redoubled and she was obliged to rip off a piece from the remnants of her already maltreated underpetticoats with which to blow her nose and soak the damp from her cheeks. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though.
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