So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. 1715. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. He was not able to recognize, as the doctor did, that she was only a natural woman. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. “She’s sensitive soul, far too sensitive to be married to an ass like Gianfrancesco. Well-born, welleducated; those are the lads that pay in full. I suppose that’s the gist of the whole thing. She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. The man’s hand flashed out, but immediately afterwards an oath and a cry of pain broke from his lips. Give him his medicine every half hour.
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