In the next place, she really had some pretensions to beauty. ” She was in the bedroom by eleven. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. 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. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play.
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