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. Gerald studied the darkness beyond the aperture. Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin. "An audience might have frightened the birds. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. "Holloa—what's that?" cried Austin, starting up.
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