It heralded you, promised you. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. 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. If you two are examples of the modern miss, I don’t know what the world is coming to. You know as well as I do that it was accident. And yet—I love you. I want to get away. Until the age of five she adored him.
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