“This means a plunge. “I knew Mr. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. But you don’t particularly want to do the job that sets you free—for its own sake. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. I have strength enough to drag myself there, and I do not want to return. 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. For all that she was of exceptional intellectual enterprise, she had never yet considered these things with unaverted eyes. It doesn’t seem to matter.
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